


Winning A Loser's Game

by BooksOfChange



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: "I Am Pilgrim" guest appearences, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Canon, BAMF Will Graham, But the murder and cannibalism has to go, Canon-Typical Violence, Hannibal Lecter Loves Will Graham, Hannibal Lecter is a Cannibal, Hannibal is Hannibal, Hannibal is a Monster, How Do I Tag, Non-Traditional Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Surrogacy, Will Loves Hannibal, Will has an adoptive brother and his name is Scott
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-18
Updated: 2019-02-25
Packaged: 2019-10-31 01:15:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 22,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17839607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BooksOfChange/pseuds/BooksOfChange
Summary: “He closed the case in a week,” Jack Crawford said. “Eight months of us going nowhere, he takes a look, and we have the Shrike. All in one week. He should be in the field.”“But he can’t,” Alana said sharply. “You know the rules. Will does not do field work unless a case had no leads for six months, and only with the deputy director’s approval.”When he was in graduate school, Will Graham caught the eye of the best Intelligence agent in the world.Years later, Jack Crawford enlists Hannibal Lecter's help for Will, who is left shaken after catching the Minnesota Shrike.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I stumbled upon NBC Hannibal in late 2018. A quick watch and examination of AO3’s offerings left me with these thoughts:
> 
>   * What am I reading (Hannigram)
>   * Will Graham would’ve been snapped up by someone even more unscrupulous than Jack Crawford in this new timeline.
>   * Seriously, what am I reading (Will Graham wump)
>   * Anti-NMDA Encephalitis subplot believability to convenience ratio is too low
>     * Every “brilliant profiler” character seems to be modeled after John Douglas
>     * Just how accurate is profiling anyway
>   * _What the bloody heck am I reading_ (omega verse)
> 

> 
> I tried to make sense of it all. This is the result.

“I heard you’re on loan to Jack Crawford’s team,” said Dr. Alana Bloom.

“For the Minnesota Shrike,” said Will Graham without looking up from the bone fragments he was examining. “Eight victims now. Nine if you count the girl impaled on antlers. The deputy head okayed it.”

“You can still say no.”

“But I won’t. I never do. That’s why I gave veto power to someone else.”

Alana would dearly love to meet the person Will trusted to keep him away from fieldwork. It couldn’t be the FBI’s deputy director, even though he was the one who reviewed the requests to consult Will. Unfortunately, Will was unforthcoming and there was no one she could ask.

Alana settled for asking: “Do you trust them?”

“Well, he hasn’t led me wrong so far,” Will replied, and Alana’s mind pounced on the pronoun. “I’m better off at the crime lab. I do good work there. I only have to talk to people in the same line of work, and that’s enough socializing for the likes of me. He was right about all of that.”

“I have no complaints, except he turned you against profiling,” Alana said.

“The numbers don’t lie,” Will shot back, but he didn’t sound defensive. “Profiling isn’t as effective as TV shows make it out to be. More often than not, it just muddles the investigation. No offense.”

“None taken. The statistic doesn’t apply to you, anyway. Even if it does, you’re on the tail end of the bell curve.” Alana smiled. “Here’s to hoping he won’t lead you wrong this time.”

* * *

Will sent Alana a text message before he left for Minnesota as was his custom.

He sent another text a week later, telling her he was returning to Virginia and asking if she could pick him up from the airport. Thus Alana got to see how Will was faring, post-case.

Alana was spoiling for a fight when Jack Crawford accost her at Georgetown University the following day.

“He closed the case in a week,” Jack declared. “Eight months of us going nowhere, he takes a look, and we have the Shrike. All in _one week_. He should be in the field.”

“But he can’t,” Alana said sharply. “You know the rules. Will does not do fieldwork unless a case had no leads for six months, and even then only with the deputy director’s approval.”

Jack scowled at the reminder. Alana knew if it were up to Jack, Will would be under the BAU, working in the field full time. Thankfully, Jack had neither the power nor the influence.

“Even if Will didn’t have these stipulations, I wouldn’t recommend it,” Alana continued. “The case left Will deeply disturbed. He’ll need a lot of time and help to regain stability. Which, by the way, was already shaky due to a severe _brain infection_.”

“He recovered.”

“Only just. He’s supposed to take it easy. And he was, until you took him to the field.”

Jack ignored the accusation. “Can you talk with him?”

“Absolutely not! That would be unethical.” Alana flushed but didn’t look away. “For personal reasons, I very much doubt I could maintain objectivity.”

“Do you know anyone else who has the right qualifications?” Jack argued.

“As a matter of fact,” said Alana, “I do.”

* * *

Hannibal felt mostly curious when he found agent Jack Crawford from the FBI in the waiting area. Wary, but curious.

“It’s not very often you meet those who have experience treating A/O patients,” Agent Crawford began, after admiring the office decor or making a good show of it. “Dr. Alana Bloom mentioned that when she referred me to you.”

Ah, so this was the reason why Agent Crawford was visiting him, rather than some other run-of-the-mill therapist on the FBI’s beck and call. DC-Maryland-Northern Virginia had a predominantly Beta population, which meant a corresponding lack of mental health professionals who catered to Alpha-Omega people.

“Most psychology departments are filled with personality deficients. Dr. Bloom would be the exception,” Hannibal said.

“Yes, she would,” Jack agreed. “She told me that you mentored her during her residency at Johns Hopkins.”

“I learned as much from her as she did from me.”

“She also showed me one of your papers. _Social Models of A/O People: differences and similarities with those who have vision loss._ ”

“Yes.” Hannibal’s actual conclusion from his research was that Alpha-Omega interactions bore a great resemblance to that of elephants because their acute sense of smell and hearing made sight of secondary importance. But Hannibal was too invested in his reputation to publicize that. For it implied the difference between _homo sapiens alpha_ and _homo sapiens beta_ was something innate, not culture-driven, and that would have triggered a firestorm of outrage.

“I gather you have an agent in need of my services,” said Hannibal.

“He belongs to the crime lab. His name is Will Graham.”

“Not the famed forensic scientist who wrote _The Scent of Death_?”

“Just the one. I got to borrow him for a case. Have you heard of Garrett Jacob Hobbs, the Minnesota killer?”

“A little. The papers said the lead investigator detected the smell of decaying human flesh from the killer’s resignation letter.”

“After which it was a matter of setting our best trackers after the scent,” said Agent Crawford with grim satisfaction. “But it was Will Graham who’d thought to examine the company documents in the first place. This is what sets him apart—he knows where to _look._ ”

Hannibal nodded. He must be the FBI’s most formidable bloodhound, Will Graham. Hannibal couldn’t help but wonder why he hadn’t been on the Ripper’s trail two years ago when Hannibal had dropped his last sounder.

“After everything he’s done for us, finding someone who can help him recover from the aftermath is the least we can do,” Agent Crawford concluded.

Hannibal felt a shiver run down his spine. Whether this request was good fortune or the first step to his downfall, it was impossible to say. But one didn’t refuse opportunities such as this.

“I’m more than happy to lend Will Graham a sympathetic ear, if that is what he needs.”

* * *

Hannibal believed in thorough preparation. Therefore he did his due diligence researching Will Graham before their scheduled meeting at Quantico.

A cursory Internet search revealed Will Graham the writer. He’d published the surprise bestseller,  _The Scent of Death,_ which Hannibal enjoyed so much, he’d invited Alana (who recommended it) and a handful of acquaintances to have a night of discussion. It had been a delightful evening. Not a single guest detected the irony of musing over “ _cloaking ourselves with death’s perfume and yet denying its presence_ ” while consuming a dinner of human liver and fava beans, paired with a fine bottle of Amarone.

A deeper search revealed Will Graham the researcher. Will was a prolific writer of scholarly papers. Hannibal had not the time to read them all, but Google Scholar gave him enough information. Will Graham wrote the standard monograph for determining the time of death from insect activity. He also led the landmark study on Alpha-Omega human senses, which pioneered the techniques the military and law enforcement used in the field. There was also the odd article on detecting engineered viral agents from old corpses.

Georgetown University, Will Graham’s alma mater, featured him as a noteworthy alumnus on its website. Former New Orleans homicide detective Will Graham entered GW’s forensic science program in 2008 and quickly gain recognition for his keen insight into criminals. He left the master’s program to get a doctorate in forensic anthropology before he joined the FBI crime lab, where he did his groundbreaking work. GW was proud of Dr. Graham’s accomplishments, both as a scholar and a role model for Omegas who wanted to rise above their circumstances. Too many didn’t see a future beyond the military. Too many stayed poor and disadvantaged.

When he’d exhausted the mainstream sources, Hannibal turned to TattleCrime.com.

The front page article of TattleCrime was, as expected, about the Minnesota Shrike’s capture, and the ever-resourceful Freddie Lounds posted a grainy photo of Will Graham lurking behind several uniformed FBI agents and paramedics in front of the Hobbs’ home. The photo’s quality was poor, and it was clearly taken from a distance. Hannibal only knew the person was Will Graham because Ms. Lounds indicated him as such with a yellow arrow. Will Graham’s face was a pale circle framed with dark hair and glasses. Hannibal could only just make out the green-brown plaid shirt Graham wore.

Hannibal read Ms. Lounds’s commentary on Hobbs’s capture.

— 

> **_FBI employs Alpha hounds to hunt down the Minnesota Shrike!_ **
> 
> _After months of floundering, the FBI brought in Special Agent Will Graham, author of the New York Times bestseller_ The Scent of Death _, to track down the Minnesota Shrike, the serial killer who took the lives of eight half-beta girls in the Minneapolis area._
> 
> _Within days, Agent Graham determined Garrett Jacob Hobbs, a construction worker, was the killer from Hobbs’s resignation letter, on which Agent Graham detected the smell of the last victim, Elise Nichols._
> 
> _When the FBI stormed Hobbs’s residence, they found Hobbs’s omega spouse dead on the porch. Their daughter, Abigail Hobbs, was taken to the nearby ICU with a knife wound to her neck. It is believed Hobbs first killed his spouse and then tried to kill his daughter when he saw law enforcement vehicles approaching his home. That Hobbs had the opportunity to murder most of his family speaks volumes of the FBI’s lack of planning._
> 
> _TattleCrime was not able to secure an interview with Special Agent Graham, but managed to snap a photo of him after the FBI gunned down Hobbs. While it is hard to see from the photo, Agent Graham was sheet-white and looked absolutely shaken when the paramedics took Abigail Hobbs to an ambulance._
> 
> _[photo insert]_
> 
> _(Side note: the GW graduate student body was right to vote Graham the prettiest.)_
> 
> _TattleCrime will follow up with another article about Hobbs’s motives and his descent to murder. With luck, you will get to hear from the elusive Special Agent Graham, who has a well-known aversion to serial killer cases, yet agreed to track down the Shrike._

_—_

Quite a few gems amidst the tabloid chaff! Agent Crawford hadn’t mentioned Will Graham’s aversion to taking serial killer cases. Nor had he mentioned how the case left Will visibly shaken though it was possible Crawford wanted Hannibal to draw his own conclusions. Of course, it was quite possible Ms. Lounds was embroidering the truth if not outright lying.

Hannibal put down his tablet and pondered how he should approach Will Graham. He was highly intelligent. That went without saying. His acute sense of smell made him uniquely dangerous. It would do Hannibal no good if Will Graham took a whiff and scented Cassie Boyle’s blood and guts from his person.

For now, Hannibal would have to stay away from his special pantry. A trip to the pool wouldn’t be amiss either. Anything that would help mask suspicious smells that may linger.

It would be a hassle, but it couldn’t be helped. Anyway, if Will Graham proved not worth the effort, Hannibal could always rubberstamp him as needing no therapy.

* * *

There was someone inside Jack Crawford’s office when Hannibal was finally escorted there. The person turned around when the door opened and peered at Jack and Hannibal owlishly behind a pair of glasses.

“Will Graham, Dr. Hannibal Lecter,” Jack said.

Hannibal perhaps should have paid more attention to Freddie Lounds’s side note about Will Graham’s looks. As it was, Hannibal wasn’t able to suppress the instinct to _stare_ as his heart rate picked up.

Will had the kind of face you didn’t want to look away from. One you couldn’t help but notice and admire, despite the layers of Salvation Army frump. Will’s eyes were particularly arresting— pale blue and full of torment, like the ghosts of a hundred murderers haunted him still. It lent Will an air of a wounded doe; aspiring his audience to either help him or hunt him.

Hannibal felt both urges. How extraordinary. He never felt contradictory desires before.

Jack offered Hannibal the chair next to Will, and then took his place behind his desk. Once seated, Hannibal offered his right hand for Will to take a whiff. Will blinked at the gesture. Hannibal guessed Will had long since abandoned any expectation of olfactory courtesy from Betas.

“I don’t want to presume your fondness for eye contact,” Hannibal said.

“I’m not good with eyes,” Will muttered with his gaze downcast. “Eyes are distracting.”

Hannibal smiled as he watched Will breathe in deeply. It was the A/O equivalent of studying a person’s face; scenting and listening to Hannibal’s body to get a measure of him. Will’s first impressions were probably more accurate for it.

“So what is this about?” Will asked.

Jack steepled his hands. “You’re up for a commendation. I endorsed it. The review board approved your active return to the field, pending a psych eval.”

Will tensed. “I do consultations, not fieldwork. That hasn’t changed.”

“It’s just a precaution. We respect your desire to remain in the crime lab, but considering what you’ve been through…”

“You wanted to make sure I’m not broken. I’m a big boy, Jack. You don’t have to beat around the bush.”

Jack smiled like he conceded the point. “You just have to do the interview. The paper tests you filled out when you returned from medical leave are still good.”

Will’s scowl was adorable. “At least that’s something.”

This wasn’t the norm, Hannibal knew. Only new recruits or those transferring to a different department had to undergo psychological evaluations. Will, who wasn’t seeking to leave the crime lab, shouldn’t have to go through one. From the look on his face, Will knew all this, too, and disliked the implications. Hannibal wondered if all these extra steps were related to Will’s medical leave.

“Is Dr. Lecter going to conduct the interview?”

“Yes.”

“Why not Heimlich?”

“He’s no longer accepting A/O applicants.”

Will sighed. The sound reminded Hannibal of a soft wind echoing inside a marble sepulcher.

“Do I have to do a sense assessment?”

“It’s regulation.”

“We can do it now,” Hannibal offered. “It need not be formal. The point is to have the right expectations for each other.”

Will looked dubious, and Hannibal knew why. One of Hannibal’s patients likened a sense assessment to a blind man trying to describe a lily-of-the-valley to someone nose-blind without the benefit of touch. Yet law enforcement agencies insisted on them to avoid liability. After all, their A/O employees were more likely to sniff out a scandal, often literally. (“No, I didn’t mean to find out you were cheating on your wife, but what else was I supposed to think when you started smelling like another woman?”)

“What do you want me to do?”

“Tell me your impression of me. The day in the life of, as you perceive it.”

Will sniffed. “You swam this morning. In an indoor pool. It was early in the morning and you were alone.”

Hannibal expected Will to mention his morning swim, but the sheer detail still jolted him. “Correct.”

“You have pots of herbs in your kitchen. Sweet Basil, Rosemary, Sage… all the usual French cuisine suspects. You added parsley and spinach to your morning protein scramble. None of the ingredients inside your house is mass production.”

“I’m careful about what I put into my body,” said Hannibal, his heart and mind more alive than it had been in _years_. “This means I end up preparing most meals myself.”

“Half-truth,” Will stated, again alarmingly accurate in his judgment. “Shall I go on?”

“Please.”

“You met Jack for the first time at your office.” Here Will’s eyes fluttered shut, as if he was recalling something he’d seen, not reconstructing events in his wondrous mind. “A spacious place with a private library, leather chairs, and a fireplace. Solid wood furniture and a few oil paintings—both from the mid-nineteenth century based on the varnish and paint composition. After you agreed to Jack’s request, you spent some time alone in your office. Researching me, I wager. Then you sketched something with a 4B pencil, sharpened with a metal handled blade, probably a scalpel. You had a wood fire going. When you were done, you straightened the notes on your desk, and went back home with your sketchbook tucked to your right.”

Will held up his hands, like he was touching invisible walls. Hannibal couldn’t look away.

“Today, after breakfast and a swim, in that order, you did your morning ablutions. You passed your usual aftershave and picked the one you wear when you’re expecting to meet an A/O. You have a sandalwood based cologne for formal occasions, and you’ve used it this past weekend. Then you stepped inside your walk-in closet, passed the tailored suits and silk ties you favor, and picked your current outfit from the back. It’s your most casual suit—the only one that doesn’t need dry-cleaning and hasn’t been touched by those chemicals. You only take it out when you want to blend in. Normally, you don’t bother. But not today. Today called for a different kind of performance. That is your design.”

Will opened his eyes and met Hannibal’s gaze head-on.

“I could say more—about your professional-grade kitchen full of stainless steel appliances, your spotless house with every frame and decorative item perfectly aligned, your meticulous habits. But it won’t be necessary, right?”

Hannibal kept his expression impassive as shockwaves of thrill racked through his body. This wasn’t Will showing off his ability to observe and deduce. This was a _warning_. That no matter how good Hannibal may think he was at understanding a person, Will was better. That before Hannibal could even start his probing, Will would know him as if he’d crawled right inside his skull. That in the end, Will would know Hannibal better than he knew himself.

Was Hannibal willing to stand naked before him?

Most people would flee from such a gaze.

Hannibal wanted to demonstrate a Ripper kill right then and there. With Jack Crawford as the centerpiece.

He quelled the urge.

“You see a lot, Will,” Hannibal said calmly. “I imagine what you see and learn touches everything else in your mind. Your values and decency are present yet shocked at your associations, appalled at your dreams. No forts in the bone arena of your skull for things you love. What a fearful and wonderful gift you have.”

Now it was Will’s turn to seal his mouth shut. He squinted at Hannibal for several breaths, his confusion plain on his face.

At last, Will rose from his chair.

“Excuse me, I’m late for my outpatient therapy.”

And with that, he left. Hannibal watched the door close behind Will. Then he turned to Jack.

“Will’s not receptive to, uh, psychiatrist, Doctor. Too many of them want to study him rather than understand him,” Jack explained.

“He’s a prodigy,” Hannibal said. “He must have taught himself to cope alone when he discovered how cruel the world is to those who are different. He cannot help but fear other people’s attention, and fear makes him rude.”

Jack sighed.

“You’re not wrong.”

* * *

Pilgrim  
  
Scott  
So how did it go?  
  
Good old-fashioned police work once the killer made a mistake. He’s dead now. We gunned him down, but not before he killed his spouse and almost killed his daughter. It was a nightmare. I’m never doing this again.  
  
Scott  
You said that fifty cases ago. I’ll believe it when I see it.  
  
Jack Crawford thinks I need therapy. Went over my head and brought in a therapist.  
  
Scott  
Have you scared them off yet?  
  
No. This one’s different. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say my party trick turned him on.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A kindly reminder Hannibal is good at faking good.

Despite their turbulent first meeting, Will Graham agreed to see Hannibal for his clinical interview and showed up to his appointment on time.

“Just FYI, you’ve got a tabloid reporter stalking your office,” Will said.

“How naughty,” Hannibal tutted. “Please give me a moment to call security.”

Hannibal began the interview as soon as building security expelled the reporter from the premises.

Will’s answers to the standard psychiatric assessment questions were perfunctory. He told Hannibal about his work (“Head Igor of the FBI crime lab; I specialize in bodies too decomposed for the coroner”), his hours (“can’t complain”), the state of his health (“improving”), and sleeping patterns (“lots of naps in three-hour stretches”). When it became clear Will was only going through the motions, Hannibal called for a pause.

“The Minnesota Shrike is the first case you worked with Jack Crawford, is it not?”

Will raised his eyebrows. “Yes.”

“Meaning, he has never seen you in the aftermath of a case.”

“No.”

“The Shrike cannot be the first murder investigation you’ve led, let alone the first serial killer case you’ve handled. You have colleagues who have worked alongside you longer.”

Will’s mouth twitched into an inadvertent smile. It was like a ray of sun piercing through a blanket of storm clouds, and just as dazzling.

“I like where this is going. Doctor, please proceed.”

“I would like to get their opinion on how you are coping,” Hannibal said. “They know how you are normally and how you fare after a case. They will give me a better idea on how you are. I’m telling you this because I do not wish to ask them without you knowing.”

Will’s smile grew wider. “Go for it.”

* * *

Hannibal checked  TattleCrime.com after Will left his office.

As expected, there was a new front page article. The feature photo showed Will walking up the steps to Hannibal’s office. The writer loudly speculated Special Agent Graham may have suffered a breakdown and was seeking psychiatric help from the top A/O therapist in Baltimore, Dr. Hannibal Lecter.

Hannibal smiled. Ms. Lounds had been very naughty indeed.

* * *

The list of Will Graham’s coworkers Hannibal was allowed to call was a very short one. Half of them had an asterisk next to their names, indicating they were unlikely to respond.

The first person Hannibal could reach was one Dr. Jimmy Price, latent fingerprints specialist. According to Jack Crawford, Will had worked with Price in other cases before he borrowed Will to catch the Shrike.

Price sounded cheerful and open when Hannibal told him the purpose of the call.

“Do you think the Shrike case left Will particularly upset?”

“No more than usual. I mean, no one comes out of a case like that untouched, but we learn how to cope. Will is no different.”

“You do not believe he’s more shaken or disturbed than usual.”

“Nah. I’ve seen him shaken and disturbed, and this isn’t quite it.”

“Can you tell me about the occasion?”

“Sorry, no. It’s way, way, _way_ above my pay grade.”

Hannibal banked his curiosity for now. “Have you seen anything that causes concern?”

Price hummed before answering: “Will overworks when he’s upset. I mean, really overwork. Last year, he pulled sixty, eighty-hour workweeks for God knows how long. Some huge, serious thing us lowly lab rats aren’t supposed to know about, no-siree. He ended up in the ICU with encephalitis.”

“Oh my.”

“It took him eight weeks to recover. When he came back, he went right back to working sixty hours a week against medical advice. Had to go back on leave four months later. I’m pretty sure the infection came back.”

Hannibal made a distressed noise. “Do you think Will is overworking himself?”

“Do you consider eight hour workdays overworking when you’re supposed to be half time because, I don’t know, _you just came back from four months of medical leave_?”

“I would. Thank you, Dr. Price. You’ve been very helpful.”

* * *

Hannibal called Supervisory Special Agent David Rossi the next day. If for no other reason he needed thorough preparation before he talked to the profiler who founded the FBI’s Behavioral Analysis Unit (BAU), whose skills were beyond dispute, therefore whose special attention he must avoid. Also, it was better to let the FBI grapevine do its work for him.

“Hello, Agent Rossi. I am Dr. Hannibal Lecter. May I speak with you?”

“Ah, Dr. Lecter. Hello. I was expecting you.”

“Excellent. You know why I’m calling.”

“Yes. I’ll keep this short. I think Will is coping as well as expected, and that Jack need not worry. Will has a good post-case routine, and he follows it without fail. This time is no exception.”

“I haven’t heard about his post-case routine. Do you mind sharing it with me?”

“Not at all.” Rossi paused and Hannibal heard shifting noises. “He takes a breather at his house with his dogs. Then he Skypes a retired NYPD cop and his wife, Ben and Marcie Bradley, and listens to them talk. It’s a palate cleanser. Gives him the opportunity to emphasize with good people, and the Bradleys are as good as they come. Then he checks in with me to make sure the killer he’s been chasing hasn’t taken residence.”

Hannibal cursed the last step, but said: “Very sensible. A man of your caliber would notice if Will is mimicking someone else’s mannerisms or is dissociating.”

“Yes.”

Hannibal noted Rossi’s casual self-assurance bordering on arrogance. “It appears you took part in building Will’s post-case routine,” Hannibal said.

“I wanted to make sure I had a safety net in place before I consulted him.”

“That’s very astute, Agent Rossi. It wouldn’t occur to most to offer such protection.”

“No one puts around that many barriers around themselves without good reason. And Will Graham has more reason than most.”

Hannibal hummed his agreement. “What he has is pure empathy. He can assume your point of view, or mine, and maybe some other points of view that scare him. It’s an uncomfortable gift.”

“A point with two sharp ends,” said Rossi, then he added: “Few therapists would suggest their services are unnecessary given the patient and the circumstances.”

Hannibal smirked. “Do you know one legal way to kill your enemies?”

“What?”

“Give them a personal physician.”

Rossi laughed outright. “They’ll find a problem even if there are none to justify their pay, and slowly kill their patient with the treatments.”

“Intervention where none is required often causes more harm than good,” Hannibal said. “Thank you, Agent Rossi. I rest easy knowing my assessment of Will is correct.”

“You’re welcome. And I’ll say this. Seems like Jack is doing Will right in bringing you in.”

* * *

With the likes of Dave Rossi to back him if need be, Hannibal had no problem signing the document that declared Will Graham was of sound mind and in control of his emotions. Not that he wouldn’t have signed off Will without such backing but still.

“Did you just rubberstamp me?”

“Yes. Uncle Jack may rest his weary head knowing he didn’t break you.”

“You’re serious.”

“I spoke with SSA Rossi. He thinks you’re doing as well as expected. You’ve followed the post-case routine he’s set for you, and he’s seen nothing that would cause him concern.”

“I didn’t think you’d actually follow through,” Will admitted.

“I keep my promises. Now we can continue our conversations unobstructed by paperwork.”

Will frowned. “What conversations? Didn’t you just confirm I don’t need therapy? What’s more for us to talk about?”

“One of your coworkers mentioned you tend to overwork when you’re upset and voiced concerns you may be. While I do not believe you need help to move on from the case, I want to make sure that whatever is upsetting you do not lead to another infection.”

Will pulled a face. “Price told you about the encephalitis, huh?”

“As they say: when you lose your health you lose everything. More so when it affects the mind.”

“That’s not your responsibility.”

“Mental health and physical health are deeply related.”

“Are you speaking as my therapist?”

“I speak as both a psychiatrist and a former medical doctor.”

Will raised his eyebrows, but didn’t inquire into Hannibal’s medical background.

“It’s… just been a while. Since I crawled into a killer’s head. I felt out of practice,” Will said.

“Is that all?”

“And I’m not fond of psychiatrists.”

“May I ask why?”

“I don’t like being psychoanalyzed. You won’t like me when I’m being psychoanalyzed,” Will snapped.

Hannibal sensed there was a joke in there somewhere.

“I imagine you met far too many people from my profession who viewed you as an interesting specimen to be studied to make psychiatrists as a group palatable.”

Will gave Hannibal another rare genuine smile. It was breathtaking.

“Yeah.”

“If I wanted to study you, I could have used FBI-mandated therapy as an excuse,” Hannibal pointed out.

Will studied Hannibal for a drawn moment. “My thoughts aren’t very tasty,” he said.

Not a full agreement, but willing to give things a try. Hannibal knew this was a huge win.

“Neither are mine. In this, you and I are very much alike.”

Will turned very thoughtful after that.

Hannibal let Will have his moment of introspection. It was good to have a breather before changing subjects, anyway.

“Let’s take a little detour. What do you think prompted Jack into calling me?” Hannibal asked.

“I don’t know, something about me almost losing it when they shot Hobbs?” Will snarked.

Hannibal made a show of reviewing his notes. “The FBI’s official report said Riley Hobbs was still alive when you encountered him at the porch. He clutched you before succumbing to his wounds.”

Will’s mouth flatlined and his jaw went rigid.

“Inside the house, you saw Garrett Jacob Hobbs slashing his daughter’s throat,” Hannibal went on.

Will was visibly paler.

“It is not strange, I think, for this experience to affect you in unexpected ways,” said Hannibal.

The corners of Will’s mouth tugged lower, and he didn’t reply for a long time.

Finally, Will said: “I tried so hard to know him. To see him. Past the slides and vials, beyond the lines of the police reports, between the pixels of all those printed faces of sad dead girls.” He shuddered. “I got _so close_. At times, it felt like I was thinking his thoughts after him.

“None of this prepared me for the reality of him. I knew the Shrike had a half-Beta daughter but not for one moment I thought about her bearer. Not until I saw him wallowing in his own blood. Besides, what good did it do? A bit of pipe threading material found on Elise Nichols’ body led us to the construction company Hobbs worked for, which led me to the letter.”

“Do you mean you could’ve solved the case without your gift?” Hannibal asked.

Will jerked his head up and down.

“Could you have?” Hannibal pressed. “Empathy is something that happens, unless one is born without it or if one becomes desensitized. Your senses and imagination doesn’t allow you either option.”

Will sucked in his lips and let them go. “I’d be hard pressed to find a case where I haven’t used my imagination to some degree,” he said.

“Do you still think Hobbs’s thoughts after him?”

“Not since he died.”

“So it wasn’t the fact you had to use your gift that got you down, was it? Nor is it Hobbs’s ghost that’s haunting you.”

“No, and no.”

Hannibal was on the verge of divining the driving force behind Will Graham. He could see it. Taste it. Smell it. Just a little further, and he would be able to touch it.

“What did you feel when they shot Hobbs?”

Will trembled. He seemed to hold his next breath just behind his teeth.

“It felt… just.”

Not quite the truth. “Would you have preferred to have shot him yourself?”

Will let out the breath he was holding in a long hiss.

“ _Yes._ ”

Hannibal willed himself to remain calm. What a remarkable discovery! Far beyond what he’d expected! “You wanted to kill him,” Hannibal probed further.

The raw emotion Will radiated was a visible thing. Something that could be felt. But then in a flicker, the dazzling darkness withdrew and the doors slammed shut.

“My first instinct when someone is in danger is to remove the threat,” said Will, too practiced to be anything but prescribed. “It used to trouble me, this… this desire to _destroy_. But then I realized it was specifically for monsters, and when someone is in danger. That’s not wrong.”

Fury and dismay battered Hannibal’s mental hatches. Some troglodyte got hold of Will, poisoned his mind with sheep’s doctrine, and twisted the nascent monster within him into a common  _sheep dog!_ The outrage of it! Will’s speech about wanting to destroy monsters was nothing less than a straightjacket someone impinged upon Will to keep his darkness checked. No wonder Will acted like he was wearing an ill-fitting person suit.

But all was not lost. That Will Graham warranted such measures spoke volumes of how deep that darkness went. And if the indoctrination had been complete, Will would not be so troubled.

Such a remarkable boy! He would do anything, anything at all, to help Will recover himself and guide him to the beautiful darkness in which he, Hannibal, lived.

“It’s an admirable instinct,” said Hannibal. “Most would choose to flee.”

Will said nothing, but met his eye.

“Then it wasn’t the killing that troubled you, but the loss of control?”

And that was it. The arrow struck home. Will lost what little color he had left and curled into himself. Hannibal drank in his fear. It was exquisite.

“No one expects you to be in control all the time. That would be unrealistic,” Hannibal said.

“It just takes one mistake,” Will murmured.

This was true, but what did Will fear would happen if he lost control of his violent urges? Surely not just the destruction of monsters.

Hannibal studied Will’s posture and judged him not ready for further probing. He learned enough for today. Now he must be soothing.

“Perhaps we can take cues from the military. Do they not always work in teams? To protect one another and keep each in check.”

“A band of brothers,” said Will bitterly. “I’m no one’s idea of a teammate.”

“You are unique, and that poses challenges. But I’m more than willing to be a light when you need it.”

Will just stared at Hannibal, in astonishment or disbelief, Hannibal couldn’t say.

* * *

Hannibal called Jack Crawford after Will departed, and informed him about Will’s post-case routine.

“He could’ve told me.”

“If it helps, Will didn’t tell me either. I got the details from Agent Rossi.”

Crawford huffed. “So you and Rossi agree Will is fine. That’s good. I have a cold case I’d love him to take a crack at. I’m confident it’ll get approved.”

“And what case may that be?”

“The Chesapeake Ripper.”

Hannibal regulated his breathing. It made sense Jack would want Will on the Ripper case. It didn’t bode well for Hannibal, but it made sense. Hannibal honestly didn’t mind the increased stakes in gaining Will’s confidence. Incentive was good. He had a few ideas on how, too, thanks to this phone call.

“Would you mind if you kept in regular touch with Will while he works on the Ripper case?” Crawford asked.

Hannibal smiled. He didn’t even have to ask.

* * *

Pilgrim  
  
Got another one  
Local serial killer case  
The Chesapeake Ripper they call him. Kills in sounders of three. Sounders because he views his victims as pigs not prey. Officially nine victims, but he likely killed before. Jack lost a deputy over him. Went to ground two years ago.  
  
Scott  
I don’t think tackling another case so soon is a good idea.  
  
It’s a cold case. I should be fine.  
  
Scott  
So you say  
What happened to the therapist Jack brought in?  
  
He called a whole lot of people including Rossi to prove I don’t need therapy.  
  
Scott  
…huh  
  
Interesting, right?


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hannibal falls arse over teakettle in love and it's hilarious.
> 
> Also, a bit of worldbuilding on the A/O conundrum.

Will called the day after Hannibal’s conversation with Jack.

“Jack wants us to have regular informal meetings while I tackle the Chesapeake Ripper,” Will said tersely.

“He sends you to dark places. You could use someone to light the way out again,” Hannibal replied.

“I don’t think it’s necessary. I mean, it’s a cold case.”

“Did not Agent Rossi make sure you left the darkness behind after _every_ case?”

“I guess.”

“What Jack is doing is no different, except he chose to enlist dedicated professional help,” Hannibal pointed out.

Will huffed. “I suppose my instinct to refuse is mostly prejudice.”

“Thank you. I’m glad you think so.” Hannibal smiled as he picked up his pen and flipped open his scheduler. “Would a weekly meeting work for you?”

“Mm, depends. I’m not allowed to drive until I’m seizure-free for a year.”

“And arranging transport from Quantico to Baltimore is not for the faint of heart.”

“There are only so many baby agents I can bully into driving me around for five hours, yes.”

Hannibal chuckled. “This is a pretty problem.”

“We can talk over Skype.”

“Or I can pay a home visit.”

“That’s a fifty-mile drive,” Will sounded so astonished. “I live in the middle of nowhere Wolf Trap.”

“I don’t mind.” It would suit Hannibal better to have their conversations away from his office where Will may scent his latest activities. Plus, it would establish his regular presence in Will’s life. “I keep my Friday afternoons clear for home visits. While telephone and video may do at a pinch, it’s not ideal. Not when much of your communication happens on the olfactory level. Last I’ve heard, only sight and sound can be transmitted over lines.”

Will said nothing for a moment.

“If you’re sure.”

“I am sure.”

“I should be home by two. I’m half-time. I should start acting like it.”

“I encourage this attitude.”

Will laughed, a delightful sound. “I’ll text you my address.”

“Thank you. I’ll schedule you for next Friday. Please do not hesitate to call me if you need my assistance before our meeting time. Until then, take care.”

* * *

Hannibal had not been lying when he told Will his Friday afternoons were for home visits. But to pencil in Will, he had to reschedule two clients. Two of his most difficult.

Mason Verger, heir presumptive of the Verger meatpacking empire until Molson had a grandchild through him. He was charged with multiple counts of child molestation but got away with community service and court-mandated therapy. In Hannibal’s opinion, all the therapy in the world was not going to rehabilitate him.

Margot Verger, Mason’s twin sister. Though she’d been disowned by her father and suffered all manner of abuse from her brother, she did not need therapy. She needed someone who could point her in the right direction and encouraged her to try, try, try again.

He was hopeful for Margot. Last they talked, Margot said the expert she was consulting had proved their worth in spades.

* * *

As a surgeon, Hannibal had had his share of Alpha-Omega patients. He usually had known which humankind he had to deal with before he got scrubbed in. It was mandatory; the anatomical differences between A/Os and Betas were both subtle and significant, and mistaking an Alpha for a Beta female or an Omega for a Beta male was a major cause of ICU-related medical errors.

(The lament among medical students was that God created two subspecies of human for the express purpose of making them cry.)

That didn’t mean mistakes didn’t happen. More than once, Hannibal had got called in to treat a Beta woman, only to discover she had an Alpha phallus (which looked nothing like a Beta male penis). On one memorable occasion, Hannibal had assisted a total gastrectomy on what he had believed was a Beta man, only to learn the patient was an Omega when he talked to the patient’s family after the operation.

At least with Will Graham, Hannibal knew for sure he was dealing with an Omega. Jack sought Hannibal specifically because he had experience treating A/O psychiatric patients. He even met Will in person and Will’s powerful nose made it all but indisputable that he was an Omega.

Hannibal still found himself caught off-guard when Will greeted him with an infant swaddled to his chest and smelling like sweet milk.

“You didn’t have to dress up,” Will blurted, as soon as he opened the door.

Hannibal recouped quickly; there was a reason he never got caught for his extracurricular activities. “I prefer a certain level of formality when I venture outside.”

“Still,” said Will, squinting.

Hannibal didn’t fail to notice the way Will’s gaze trailed up and down. It made him smile.

“Well, come in, I guess.”

“Thank you.”

Will stepped aside and Hannibal walked through.

Hannibal took a moment to look around. Will’s house was a cozy place; clean, bookish, and walls dotted with nature-themed watercolors. An old upright piano stood between bookshelves. A fly-tying station sat before a large bay window, next to a row of fishing rods. The lure in progress was composed of black thread and scarlet feathers, reminiscent of a Siamese Fighting Fish.

A queen-sized bed sat in a far corner of the living room with a crib on one side and a window on the other. Hannibal noted the dog beds surrounding what was clearly the designated sleeping area.

The sound of nails clicking on hardwood floors reached Hannibal’s ears. Hannibal turned and saw three dogs approach him, sniffing but not barking. One looked like a German Shepherd, and the second had an interesting brindle coat and resembled a retriever.

The third dog felt like meeting a neighborhood bully from his childhood. It was a huge beast, big enough to wrestle a bear. Hannibal could not name its breed, but he knew they’d been favored by Soviet thugs.

Will made a clicking noise, and all three dogs sat.

“Dr. Lecter, Buster, Winston, and Sasha,” said Will, indicating who was who. Then he addressed his dogs. “Everyone, Dr. Hannibal Lecter.”

Sasha—[the giant bear of a dog](https://www.akc.org/dog-breeds/caucasian-shepherd-dog/)—barked. Hannibal flinched despite himself.

“They’re well trained,” said Hannibal, once he realized Will’s dogs weren’t about to move.

Will looked amused. “Thanks.”

“Your child is adorable.”

“His name is Morgan and I’m looking after him for a friend.”

“May I ask about Morgan’s parents?”

“Not much I can say.” Will wrapped his arms around Morgan. “They couldn’t carry, so I offered to be a surrogate.”

“That’s very generous of you.” Hannibal coughed delicately. “How old?”

“Two months.”

“May I hold him?”

Will eyed Hannibal dubiously for a second. Then he pulled out Morgan from his cloth carrier and deposited him into Hannibal’s arms.

Hannibal curled a hand around the back of Morgan’s neck for support and held him close. Morgan was warm, lighter than the two-month-olds Hannibal had encountered during his rotation in obstetrics, but far healthier than the ones he’d met in the NICU.

A two-month-old baby would make any decent person nervous. It also explained why Will was extra-vigilant about expunging Garrett Jacob Hobbs’s psyche from his head and feared the loss of control.

This certainly put a damper in Hannibal’s plans. He was a killer, but not of infants and children.

A thought occurred to him.

“I’m surprised Morgan’s parents didn’t take him right after birth.”

“They wanted him breastfed for a bit,” said Will.

“That would boost his health, present, and future,” Hannibal allowed. “Does this mean you’ll be caring him for another four months? That’s unusual.”

“Not exactly standard practice and I don’t think so? Morgan’s mom is eager to have him. Should be ready to take him full time in another month or so.”

Hannibal noted ‘mom’ and the time period. The former could be a slip. The latter was curious. “It won’t be easy for you, to give him away.”

Will shrugged. “He’ll be better off with his intended parents.”

“It is probably rude for me to ask why you think so.”

“Yeah, don’t ask.”

“Who looks after him when you are at work?”

“His mom.”

That moment, Morgan started to squirm and fuss.

“He’s hungry,” said Will. “I need to take him back.”

Hannibal returned Morgan without comment. Will made little kissy noises at Morgan as he eased himself down on the nearby armchair.

Hannibal watched, transfixed, as Will unbuttoned his shirt—a hideous, washed out salmon button-down that did Will no favors—one-handed and pushed the left panel aside.

Hannibal’s breath caught when he saw the nursing brazier Will wore. Soft cotton. Grey. Made for Beta women. It had a detachable cup that made the nipple more accessible.

“You don’t mind, do you?” Will asked.

Hannibal swallowed, his mouth suddenly a parched desert. “Not at all.”

Will exposed his chest without hesitation.

Hannibal couldn’t bear to even blink, to miss even a second of the visual feast laying out before him. Will’s nipples were dark and his breasts were soft and swelling. His skin looked pale under the dim lights and seemed to glow faintly.

Morgan latched on with some coaxing and started to suckle.

It was an unbearably tender sight. As sublime and graceful as a painting of Madonna nursing the Christ Child.

Hannibal’s fingers twitched. The need to use his hands for something was overwhelming. He wanted to paint Will Graham dressed in finery and bathed in blood. He also wanted to grab, tear and _consume_.

He’d have to settle on committing it all to memory for now. And keep his hands occupied.

“May I use your kitchen?”

“Why?”

“You’re far thinner than I would like.” There was a hollowness to Will’s cheeks and his pallor, while beautiful, didn’t say good things about his health. It was like Will was sacrificing his own vitality to Morgan. A noble act, but one Hannibal found unnecessary. “Meal preparation must be a challenge. As well as grocery shopping.”

Will’s mouth twitched. “You have a thing about people going hungry.” It wasn’t a question, and Will did not use the usual phrasing: ‘ _You have a thing about feeding people_ ’. A deliberate choice in words, Hannibal thought.

Hannibal decided a bit of honest disclosure wouldn’t hurt. “I was a proverbial orphan in the Soviet Union when I was young. There were many long and lean winters until my uncle Robertus adopted me at sixteen.”

Will nodded slowly. There was no pity in his gaze. Just understanding.  _Knowing_.

“We have that in common, I guess. Food Stamps and whatever I could fish from the nearby water for me.”

“Your family?”

“I had my dad. Never knew my mother. It wasn’t unusual.”

Hannibal nodded. Traditionally, A/Os segregated by gender and only mingled during the semiannual musth season, during which sexually fertile adults came together to find a mate. Things had changed with modernization. Nuclear families replaced multi-generation single-gender clans. Omegas had fewer children, and the average age of first-time bearers got older and older. Alpha-Omega couples weren’t about to adopt the Beta culture of two parents living and raising their children together anytime soon, but Alphas were now heavily involved in child rearing when previously they were all but absent.

There were more mixed marriages. Half-Betas were no longer a rarity. There were enough in each state for a deranged father to hunt down and consume in lieu of his own beloved daughter.

“So, may I?” Hannibal asked again.

Will’s smile was adorable. “Be my guest.”

Hannibal removed his coat.

It was time to conquer.

* * *

Their conversation did not resume until Hannibal finished his cooking frenzy, and he and Will sat before plates of warm frittata on a bed of greens.

“I reviewed the Ripper case files,” Will sampled the frittata and looked surprised. “This is delicious. Thank you.”

Hannibal would be lying if he said he wasn’t interested in hearing Will’s impression of his work. “My pleasure. And?”

“I’ve never seen a killer quite like him,” Will said. “I dare say he’s _singular_.”

Hannibal was unable to completely restrain his delighted smile. “Why does he strike you as such?”

“Most killers have a pattern, whether it’s their killing method or their victimology. The Ripper doesn’t have one.” Will sat back. “I mean, there  _is_ , that’s how we identify his victims, but that’s it. For all his ostentatious displays, there is nothing about _him_ you can find.”

“A phantom.”

“A predator,” Will pushed his food around his plate. “A master in camouflage. Stealthy. Patient. Adaptable. But above all, _intelligent_.”

Hannibal licked his lips. “Organized.”

“Superbly. No one can execute murders like his without meticulous planning. This tells me he has both feet planted firmly in reality.”

“He’s sane?”

“He’s one of us,” Will said with conviction. “A monster hiding in plain sight. You could be talking to him, and you would have absolutely no idea. He can be anyone.”

Hannibal suppressed the shiver of pleasure.

“Yet at the same time, he can’t be anyone,” Will said. “Intelligence of this caliber is difficult to hide. He certainly doesn’t bother to hide it when he kills. His displays are infused with symbolism that borrows heavily from western art, history, and literature. Then there are his surgical skills. It takes practice to achieve precise cuts on the bodies. The precision hasn’t deteriorated between sounders, which means he had both the time and the means to hone his technique. He also knows to clean up after himself and has made no mistakes.”

“The investigator’s worst nightmare,” Hannibal said.

“The absolute worst,” Will agreed. “I’ve only come across one other murderer who left crime scenes as clean, and she only killed two. The Ripper killed _nine_.”

Hannibal couldn’t help himself. “That you know of.”

“That we know of,” Will echoed. “He probably killed more. He killed before he emerged as the Ripper, killed during the long pauses between tableaux, and killed after his last. We just don’t know it.”

Hannibal covered the lower half of his face before he could betray himself.

“For all this, though, he’s still a creature of flesh and blood,” Will said. “His ninth victim. Miriam Lass. I think she surprised him.”

“How?”

“Not sure. Lass was looking up the medical records of victims seven and eight before she vanished.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. But I found something interesting.” Will drew in a breath. “Before he was killed, victim eight was taken to the ER after a hunting accident. Turns out _you_ were his attending doctor.”

Hannibal didn’t have to feign his surprise. While Hannibal had prepared for the possibility of him being questioned about Lass, he hadn’t imagined it would happen like this.

He needed to react soon. If he mentioned her visit, the natural follow up question would be: “What did you tell Lass?” Will would also ask him why he didn’t tell the FBI about her visit when they publicized her disappearance. Therefore, it was better to deny ever seeing Lass. Hannibal’s only link to Olmstead was his years as a surgeon, and no one would expect him to remember a patient who got hurt from a commonplace hunting accident. The question was, could he convince Will? Dear Will, who was so brilliant and perceptive, hiding real emotions was nigh impossible.

“Really,” said Hannibal at last.

“I don’t suppose you remember him?” Will asked.

“Except for the occasional patient with an unusual medical condition or those who almost died due to an error, my years as a doctor is a giant exhausted blur. His records will tell you more than I can.”

“Did Lass ask you about Olmstead?”

Hannibal spread his palms in a hopeless gesture.

Will heaved a disappointed sigh. “What kind of medical doctor were you?”

“I was a general surgeon.” An oxymoron if there ever was one; surgeons were now so absurdly super-specialized, one couldn’t joke about right-ear surgeons and left-ear surgeons without wondering if they actually existed. “My focus was Critical Care.”

“Why did you quit?”

“I killed someone. Or, more accurately, I couldn’t save someone. But it felt like killing them.”

“You worked in the emergency room. It has to happen from time to time.”

“It happened one time too many. I transferred my passion for anatomy into the culinary arts. I fix minds instead of bodies, and no one’s died as a result of my therapy.”

Will looked pensive. “When did you quit?”

“Early 2008.”

“Have you heard about the [WHO surgery checklist](https://www.who.int/patientsafety/safesurgery/checklist/en/)? Seems to reduce ICU-related deaths anywhere between ten to forty percent wherever it is implemented properly.”

Hannibal smiled. “Are you suggesting I should consider returning?”

Will shrugged. “If you prefer the scalpel to therapy.”

“I miss it sometimes. The adrenaline. The pressure. The satisfaction of saving lives in so tangible a manner.” And there was so much murder you could get away with. “But I don’t miss the hours.”

“Oh, yeah, I heard they’re awful.”

Hannibal chuckled. “Well, I’m still certified, and well within the ten-year re-education window.” Retraining would also give Hannibal an ironclad excuse to have the lingering odor of human viscera and death about him.

It was his biggest obstacle, Will’s acute sense of smell. He still marveled at how Will could detect Elise Nichols from Hobbs’s resignation letter, days after Hobbs had killed the girl. It wouldn’t do well for Hannibal to underestimate it.

That reminded him; he needed to seal his basement and clean his kitchen before he invited Will for dinner.

The last thought gave Hannibal a pause. He wanted to invite Will. To dinner.

Was he turning foolhardy?

“I can hear you thinking,” Will said.

“You left me with much to think about,” said Hannibal.

That was an understatement. He had surgical retraining to schedule, a basement to seal, a kitchen to clean, and dinners to plan.

But first, he had to deal with Abigail Hobbs.

* * *

Pilgrim  
  
Question for the group:  
Beta male, about ten years older, ex-surgeon, now psychiatrist, lives FIFTY MILES AWAY, offers to do weekly home visits when I tell him I can’t drive. At the first appointment, he looks at me, looks at Morgan and decides I’m too skinny for an Omega dad of a 2 month old. Then promptly rolls up his sleeves and cooks a metric-ton of food.   
BTW, he was wearing a fancy three-piece suit. Didn’t complain about the dogs, though Sasha makes him flinch. Food was delicious.  
  
Discuss  
  
Scott  
Could be a honeypot  
  
Marcie  
What’s a honeypot?  
  
Scott  
Seduction ploy  
  
Ben  
Is this the therapist who went through the trouble of proving you don’t need therapy but agreed to keep an eye on you?  
  
Yes  
  
Marcie  
If he’s not a honeypot or a serial killer, marry him


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hannibal is himself and has warm fuzzy feelings about having a Real Friend

The Crawfords were good dinner guests, knowledgeable and appreciative of fine food and drink. Hannibal also enjoyed the conversation.

“I am surprised Will agreed for more sessions,” said Jack, “surprised but delighted. How did you convince him?”

“Hyperosmia,” Hannibal replied. “I became aware of my keen sense of smell as a young boy when I scented stomach cancer from one of my teachers before he knew.” He met Bella Crawford’s eyes at this juncture. The light in her eyes dimmed, but she didn’t look away. “Though my nose is nowhere near the level of an A/O, it’s good enough to let me sympathize with their challenges.”

“Now I understand why you are their go-to therapist. Dr. Bloom was right to recommend you,” said Jack, saluting with his empty wineglass.

Hannibal poured the wine. “I appreciate the care you are showing to Will. Above and beyond what Rossi shows him, I dare say. But it makes me wonder.”

Jack set down his glass and fixed Hannibal with a hard stare. His face showed grim amusement when Hannibal just smiled and served him (human) loin.

“I met Will several years back. We disagreed over the naming of the Evil Minds Research Museum. Just as we were about to part ways, he stopped me. ‘ _How is your wife?_ ’ he asked.”

Jack turned to Bella, who met his gaze. They held hands.

“I asked what he was on about. He said: ‘ _You should take her to a doctor. There’s something in her lungs._ ’”

“There was something in my lungs, all right,” said Bella grimly. “Lung cancer. Not a curable form, but caught early. It gave us more time.”

“You are indebted to him,” said Hannibal.

“As I said before, after all he’s done, it was the least I can do,” Jack finished.

* * *

“I’m curious, Alana. Did you know about Morgan?”

Hannibal would love to have Will in his kitchen one day. For now, having Alana Bloom as sous-chef was more than satisfactory. Especially since she could provide the information he wanted. So he’d plied Alana with beer (aged in a wine barrel, clarified with human collagen) and fired away.

“Of course,” Alana replied. “It was one of the few choices Will made after his recovery I disagreed with.”

“It’s not unusual for those who recover from a serious illness to make drastic changes to their lives,” Hannibal remarked.

“I know. And most of the changes Will made were positive ones. He reduced his hours at the Crime Lab. He started thinking about leaving fieldwork for good. I was so excited for him when he got connected to the chief editor of _Modern Investigation Techniques_. Will’s going to contribute to the next edition, did you know?”

Hannibal set down his chef’s knife with an audible _clack_. “Isn’t that the most definitive volume on forensics and investigation?” Hannibal relied on the first edition when he crafted the Chesapeake Ripper persona. In his opinion, all budding killers should study its pages to learn how to get away with murder.

“Yes,” said Alana with a bright smile. “I’m proof-reading his chapter on scent-based evidence collection and analysis.”

“I look forward to reading it,” said Hannibal sincerely. “Our dear Will had quite an eventful and productive past year. But his decision to have Morgan must’ve occurred early on.”

“Right after his first medical leave,” Alana confirmed. “I didn’t know until he was four months pregnant.”

“He didn’t tell you.”

“He didn’t tell anyone,” said Alana, followed by a huff. “When I confronted him, he just told me not to worry.”

“I’m sure he put a lot of thought behind the decision.”

“I just wish he told me what they were.”

Hannibal picked up his knife and resumed chopping. “I get the impression Will’s work with the FBI exacts a terrible toll on him. Before, sequestering in the lab and doing the odd consult was enough to protect him. Now, even that wears him down. Perhaps he thought having a child would finally give him the strength to step away from it all.”

“Because it won’t be just him anymore.” Alana sighed. “I’m happy you’re here for Will. He’s good at his job, but it’s bad for him. If it’s not the killers, it’s the victims he can’t save.”

Hannibal did not think he misunderstood what Alana wasn’t saying.

“My dear Alana, what happened?”

Alana lowered her gaze.

“Abigail. Hobbs’s daughter. She passed away last night.”

* * *

Hannibal knew Will heard of Abigail’s death the moment he stepped inside Will’s house for their second session.

“You know,” said Will dully.

“I’m sorry, Will,” said Hannibal. “I know you tried so hard to save her.”

Before he met Morgan, Hannibal had a nebulous plan of using Abigail Hobbs for Will’s becoming. Feeding the guilt Will must feel for leaving her a penniless orphan and watching Abigail inevitably suffer the consequences of surviving her father would open a world of possibilities.

Morgan made the plan superfluous. Will already had a child to protect—one he nurtured and birthed into being. Hannibal didn’t know if Will had room left in his heart to adopt another, but it didn’t matter. With Morgan already in Will’s life, Abigail’s death would do more to contribute to Will’s becoming than her alive.

A quiet alteration to her potassium levels and she was gone. Her death would’ve been painless. In the unlikely event the hospital found out, they would assume the anesthesiology resident made a mistake.

At least he hadn’t killed a complete innocent. Hannibal suspected Abigail acted as her father’s lure. Evidence: Before a girl vanished, Abigail went on a campus tour, and Garrett Jacob Hobbs arranged transport for two. But if Abigail traveled alone, there were no victims. Ergo, Abigail knew what her father was doing. She’d likely helped him to keep herself alive. She had been a survivor. As such, she had great potential, and Hannibal was truly sorry to have had to kill her. But she was a candle to Will’s sun, and Hannibal couldn’t allow any distractions.

Hannibal placed a hand on Will’s shoulder. They were close enough for their clothes to brush, but not close enough to feel each other’s body heat. Will didn’t step away, but leaned into Hannibal’s touch, like he was starving for it.

“Let’s take our conversation outside, under the sunlight and trees.”

“You think that’ll cheer me up?”

“No. But it may remove elements that are feeding into your sadness.”

Will’s face was a tumult of deep emotion. Like ocean currents, the surface showed little hint of its torrents.

“I’ll get Morgan and the dogs.”

* * *

The blue cloth baby carrier Will favored was decent enough for its purpose. Wrapping it around Will to secure Morgan to Will’s chest presented Hannibal a vivid image: of him adorning Will, unclothed and unshod, with a length of fine black silk. Another image to sketch in the privacy of his room.

Once Morgan was bundled up and comfortable, Will shrugged on a jacket, put on his hiking boots and led the way to the forest.

The dogs gamboled ahead, barking and sniffing. The chill in the air kissed their skin as leaves crunched beneath their feet. Above them, the canopy of red and yellow rustled, and it shed its members to the wind. Despite the racket the dogs made, the forest seemed to draw them into her embrace, cocooning them with calm.

Deep inside the forest, with nothing but the wind to overhear them, Will broke the silence.

“Sometimes I wonder if there’s any point to all this. I catch a killer, but there will always be another. And another. And catching them won’t bring the dead back.”

“A Sisyphean task, if you alone are responsible,” Hannibal said. “But there are other agents. Jack Crawford has been catching monsters long before you joined the FBI, and he will carry on if you leave.”

Will smirked. “I’m not irreplaceable.”

“There will not be another agent like you, but the FBI will have to make do. Self-preservation is not selfishness.”

Will considered that. Then he raised his chin and filled his lungs with Autumn air.

“What do you suggest I do if I stop catching killers, doctor?”

“Fill your life with good things. You hunt evil to protect the good. You should enjoy the fruits of your labor.”

Hannibal had planned to tell Will he would bring a platter of delicacies for their next session, but a better idea came to him.

“If you feel lost on where to start, we can start practicing. I suggest we have our next meeting at a farmer’s market. Together, we shall taste and see what is good.”

Will let out a breathy chuckle. “The last time I ventured into a farmer’s market, all I did was point out the fake organic wares.”

“We can make a game out of it. Spot the fake organic.”

“I assume my dogs are not invited.”

“Sasha alone would fill the back seat which leaves no room for Morgan.”

Will laughed. “You know, there was a time in my life when I could drive and had seven dogs. I might get back to that one day. Speaking of car seats, I’ve never installed one before.”

“I’m sure we can figure it out. Between the two of us, we have three doctorates. It can’t be that hard.”

Will laughed again.

* * *

The next week, Hannibal and Will consulted a few videos on how to install an infant car seat in a Bentley. Will, who was more mechanically inclined—he fixed boat motors as a hobby—ended up doing most of it.

“There. Now we can keep our PhDs-are-clever street cred,” said Will.

Will’s cheerful mood persisted to the market, where Will took great joy in pointing out all the stalls that carried fake organic produce. Hannibal collected the business cards of aforesaid owners for future pantry restocking.

“Let me guess. You’re going to give them one star reviews on Yelp,” Will said.

“That would be gauche,” said Hannibal primly.

Between sampling the pumpkin flavored baked goods and cheese, Hannibal coaxed the story of how Will got to meet the editor of the best reference book on how to commit murder.

“There’s this annual meet-up for the fans of _Modern Investigation Techniques_ that’s been going on since 2003 _._ I don’t remember how I heard about it, but I was determined to go. Lucky for me, they held the 2008 meet-up in Georgetown. That’s how I met the chief editor, Peter Campbell.”

Campbell must’ve taken a shine on young Will, for he had been the one to tell Will he need not settle for just a master’s degree in forensic science, but aim for a doctorate.

“Did he suggest the FBI crime lab, also?”

“Yes. Best career advice I’ve got.”

“And have you and he kept in touch since?”

“On and off. He’s a globetrotter. Very hard to pin down.”

“Has this year’s meet-up already passed?” Hannibal smarted at the idea of missing the opportunity to further perfect his kills.

“It’s held every summer, sorry.”

“Alas. I shall prepare for next year’s then.”

“I’ll let you know when it happens.”

“Thank you. By chance, have you discussed the Ripper with Mr. Campbell?”

“Sure. He had an interesting opinion on why the Ripper kills.”

Grinning, Will pulled out his phone and showed Hannibal a series of texts:

> Peter  
>    
>  Maybe he’s like the Joker. He does it for the LOLs.  
>    
>  What, he wakes up certain mornings and goes: what a great day for murder!  
>    
>  It would explain why there’s no connection between victims.

Hannibal should have felt offended at the glibness with which Campbell treated his art.

He laughed with Will instead.

How extraordinary.

* * *

The week following the trip to the farmer’s market, Hannibal and Will spent a delightful afternoon perusing all three editions of _Modern Investigation Techniques,_ critiquing the case studies and tossing ideas on what the Ripper was doing with the parts he removed. Will made some noise about trophies. Hannibal suggested organ harvester or a pathologist working in a hospital.

The last one made Will think. Tossing the organs with all the other tissues hospitals regularly disposed was a great way to get rid of them, he agreed. Thank you, doctor.

The week after that, Hannibal sat next to Will before the fireplace, nursing glasses of wine and enjoying the warmth of the fire as they talked. Will had many questions that day; about medical school, the perishability of surgical skills, and how long it took a doctor to gain mastery.

“Few have what we call ‘natural talent’. Some have more dexterity, others have better spatial orientation, but that doesn’t translate to greater surgical skill. One only gains mastery through practice and experience. It takes about three to five years on average. You should be wary of getting treated by an unaccompanied resident for this reason.”

Will blanched at that. “Good to know.”

And so Hannibal’s days went. Fridays quickly became the highlight of his week. Was this what it was like to have a real friend?

Hannibal couldn’t help but wonder. And _want._

* * *

Will called on a Tuesday evening.

“I can’t make it this Friday. I have to examine a totem pole of dead bodies.”

Hannibal wasn’t sure if he heard correctly. “A totem pole of bodies.”

“A dozen-plus bodies in various states of decay, held together with ropes, raised to a tall structure. No scaffolding. We think the perp used a truck.” A sigh. “Happy Thanksgiving.”

That should’ve spiked Hannibal’s interest, but all he could think of was a day without Will. It left him feeling forlorn.

“Perhaps I can bring something for you and your team.”

“I’ll be fine. We’re ordering tacos.”

Hannibal made a pained noise. “Please. It won’t be a bother. I am thinking soup and sandwiches.”

“Mmm, that does sound better than Taco Bell.” Hannibal could hear Will smiling. “There are four of us, plus two assistants. One of them keeps kosher.”

“I’ll make sure there’s kosher turkey,” Hannibal said.

Will was waiting for him at the visitor’s entrance when Hannibal arrived at Quantico bearing a cooler full of sandwiches and a large thermos. Will was wearing a lab coat and a pair of goggles was resting on top of his head. Hannibal really shouldn’t have found him adorable, but he did when Will smiled so sweetly.

“Individually wrapped and labeled. Why am I not surprised,” Will said.

“One must respect dietary restrictions,” said Hannibal. “I feel as though I’ve been invited to a behind the scenes look to the famed FBI crime lab. It’s very exciting.”

“It sounds more interesting than it actually is.”

Will’s fellow forensic specialists broke into a standing ovation when Hannibal entered the lab.

“Before we begin, you must all be warned,” Hannibal said to the salivating and exhausted lab personnel. “Nothing here is vegetarian.”

Laughter all around; Hannibal smiled.

“Bon appétit.”

Will’s coworkers descended upon the food like a swarm of locusts. Hannibal pulled Will aside and poured the contents of his thermos into a small bowl.

“What is that?!” A lanky and bearded coworker squawked, looking revolted. His I.D. said Brian Zeller.

“Looks exotic,” said a man around Hannibal’s age. James Price, said his I.D.. Dr. Jimmy Price. Now Hannibal had a face to the name.

“Is that miyeok guk?” asked an Asian woman around a mouthful of sandwich. Her I.D. told her name was Beverly Katz. “It’s miyeok guk. I know that smell.”

“Yes,” Hannibal confirmed. To Will, he said in an undertone: “Wakame seaweed simmered in bone broth with mussels and beef. A traditional Korean dish usually given to nursing mothers.”

Will blushed. “Oh.” He accepted the bowl and drank from it. “It’s good. Thank you.”

Hannibal couldn’t be more pleased.

“My pleasure.”

Hannibal surveyed his appreciative audience, amused that their forensic expertise was not enough to let them know who they were eating. Then he noticed the diagram tacked to a board.

“Is that the totem pole?”

Will followed Hannibal’s gaze. “Yeah. The oldest ones on the bottom, freshest one on the top. My work starts here.” He poked a little above the halfway point. “The rest is for Zee.”

“Oh no,” Zeller said. “My work starts here.” He jabbed his right forefinger at the eighty percent mark. “Everything below that line is mummy or skeleton. That’s all you.”

Will rolled his eyes.

“Any chance for prints?” Price chimed in. “Beverly got all those lovely ropes. I deserve prints.”

“Nah,” Zeller said immediately.

“Snowball’s chance in hell,” Will seconded.

“A girl can dream,” said Price brightly. “So, Will, what say you about the bodies?”

The light in Will’s eyes flickered.

“They’re all murders.”

* * *

Will told Hannibal about Laurence Wells, the maker of the totem pole, on a dark wintry afternoon with rain lashing the windows.

“Joel Summers was his son.”

Hannibal looked up from where he was feeding Will’s dogs bits of human sausage. “Oh?”

“Wells loved Joel’s mother, Eleanor,” Will explained. “He thought the woman he loved was having another man’s baby when she should’ve been having his. So he killed the man. Fletcher Marshall. That’s where he started. Joel Summers was where he ended.”

“But he got it wrong,” Hannibal realized. “Eleanor _chose_ to raise Joel as Fletcher Marshall’s child rather than his. Perhaps she saw what was in his heart.”

Will nodded gravely. “The totem pole was supposed to secure his legacy.”

“Instead he murdered it.” The irony was exquisite. Hannibal was hard pressed to restrain his glee. “In fact, his one act as a father was to destroy his son.”

Will didn’t reply, but smiled and raised an imaginary glass in dark salute.

They moved to the chairs by the fire after.

There was something in the air. A strange, ephemeral ethereal something, like the world was holding time in suspense. Yet there was no fear, no need for speech. As he studied the light reflecting on Will’s lovely face, Hannibal knew if he lived an eternity, he would remember that moment forever.

Then Will spoke:

“I’ve finished my profile on the Ripper. Wanna take a look?”

Hannibal’s heart bottomed out.

* * *

Pilgrim  
  
Hannibal seems open to returning to medical practice. Started smelling like morgue and hospital after I suggested he take up surgery again. I asked around, and Johns Hopkins ER is really happy to have him back.  
Maybe, if he proves not to be a honeypot, he can replace your retired Aussie pediatric surgeon with a drinking problem for your emergency medical needs.  
  
Scott  
Leave Dr. Sydney out of this  
Wait  
Do you like this guy?!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Potassium overdose is how states executes prisoners. Too much potassium stops heart function.


	5. Chapter 5

Will handed over the folder. Hannibal placed it on his lap, flipped it open and started to read. 

> **The Chesapeake Ripper**
> 
> Male. Age 40-50. Comes from a family of means and culture. Was exposed to classical works as a teen or after he began his professional career (see institutions offering classical education). Has particular interest and knowledge in Italian art and architecture (see notes on victims 2, 4 & 5).
> 
>   * May have lived in Italy and/or have ties to the country.
> 

> 
> Lived overseas or immigrated to America before 9-11. Made the US his permanent residence between 91-00.
> 
>   * Lack of Ripper-like kills in America pre-2008, though he must have killed throughout his adulthood. It takes an average of 7-10 years to gain citizenship and thus avoid deportation.
>   * May have immigrated after the dissolution of the Soviet Union.
> 

>   * Medium chance his country of origin is a Baltic state that gained independence from the Soviet Union in 1991 (e.g. Estonia, Latvia, and Lithuania).
> 

> 
> Has training in medicine or butchery. Medical training more likely considering victim 8 was made to look like a Wounded Man diagram. If a medical doctor, has at least 6-7 years of experience as a surgeon.
> 
> If he is currently working for a hospital, it will not be on a full-shift basis, and his primary concern will be his access to the hospital’s biohazard disposal unit. The same pattern and motivation if he worked for a hospital in the past.
> 
> He will possess a residence equipped to handle the creation of his tableaux. He will have a vehicle equipped to transport bodies and biowaste.
> 
> He may keep the organs he removes from his victims as trophies, or he may eat them so he can carry the memory forever.
> 
> He does not consider himself as part of the human race, but separate and distinct. He is able to blend in with ordinary people. Solitary. If he requires an associate, he will engage one on an adhoc basis, and he or she will be under his complete control. None survive the encounter if they know what he is.

Clever, clever boy. Hannibal may as well be reading an abridged and annotated version of his biography. Once in the hands of Jack Crawford, it wouldn’t be long before the arrows started pointing at his direction.

Only one thing stopped Hannibal from absconding with Will and the file: Will appeared not to have made the leap from the Ripper to Hannibal.

“You smell of fear, Doctor,” Will said. “Fear and sorrow.”

No doubt he did, Hannibal thought. Never had he felt so hunted in his life, or so enamored by his hunter.

“You stay in the fringes of fieldwork, Will, and you are wise to do so,” Hannibal said. “But that doesn’t insulate you from the killers you seek. In your effort to get into their minds, you sometimes enter their proximity.”

Will’s smile was humorless. “Hobbs.”

“I fear what may happen if you get too close to the Ripper. The last person who tried never came back.” Hannibal swallowed. “I care about _you_ , not the lives you may save.”

“I won’t be doing the arrest.”

“You were not there to arrest Hobbs when they gunned him down. You were there to ask him questions.”

Will said nothing.

“Hobbs was obsessed with his daughter. So his focus was killing her before she was taken away from him. The Ripper is a solitary predator. He will lash out if you threaten his life.” _Please, Will, I don’t want to do to you what I did to Lass. The world is more interesting with you in it._

“I don’t think the Ripper is afraid of someone taking his life,” said Will, deaf to Hannibal’s unspoken warnings.

“His freedom then,” said Hannibal quietly. “You would take that away from him.”

“In a rational society, they’d kill him or put him to use,” Will murmured. “Ours won’t. He’s too different. They’ll lock him up and throw away the key.”

“Half measures. The curse of our time.”

Will nodded, his gaze fixed upon the fire. Then he looked at Hannibal.

What he saw seemed to fill him with astonishment.

“Dr. Lecter?”

“Will,” Hannibal whispered.

Will stared at him for another beat, lips parted. Then Will padded over, knelt before him, and placed a hand on Hannibal’s knee. Their eyes met.

“I only promised Jack a profile,” Will said.

Hannibal’s heart soared even as it tried to rend itself apart.

“That’s all I’ll give him,” Will said. “I won’t go looking.”

“Do you promise?” Hannibal asked, and he could feel the tears prickling his eyes.

Will nodded once.

Hannibal clutched Will to his chest and buried his face in Will’s neck. As he wetted it with tears, he hoped this promise Will would keep.

* * *

Hannibal stayed longer than usual, both he and Will not eager to part after such an emotionally charged exchange. The silver moon was glinting above the pitch-black tree line when Hannibal finally collected his things.

Will accompanied Hannibal all the way to his car. Hannibal placed a hand on the back of Will’s neck and pulled him close. Will went willingly.

“Sweet dreams, dear Will,” Hannibal whispered into his ear.

Will nuzzled his face into Hannibal’s hair. “Good night, doctor.”

Hannibal left Will at his little house in the woods.

He looked back, just once. And saw Will standing on the porch, half hidden behind a pillar, his house shining like a beacon in the middle of a wine dark sea.

* * *

Hannibal took stock of his situation when he returned to Baltimore.

Hannibal knew the purpose of profiling was reducing man hours. One never got convicted based on a profile alone. Without real evidence tying him to the Ripper murders, the FBI could not touch him. And there was no such evidence, or Hannibal would’ve been questioned by now.

Today or tomorrow, Will would send his profile on the Ripper to Jack Crawford and, the Devils of Hell willing, wash his hands of the case.

As long as Will kept his promise to not go looking, he was safe.

His decision to resume surgery was paying hefty dividends. Will took little notice when Hannibal fed his dogs human sausage the same day he’d practiced repairing major tears in arteries. Will also appeared not to realize Hannibal had fed his coworkers the flesh of the victims they were seeking to avenge. All excellent and entertaining results, but the experiments left him running low on human swine.

Retraining in surgery and running a full practice didn’t leave much time for all his hobbies. His special pantry never looked so barren.

Normally, he’d be itching to restock.

Instead, the idea of stopping indefinitely entered his mind.

Hannibal turned the thought in his head.

Could he?

* * *

Hannibal consigned the thought to the bin of futility. Either he would butcher human swine or he won’t. Hannibal knew himself. Unless there was a theme more compelling than punishing the rude and transforming banality to beauty, he would not stop.

With the thought put to bed, Hannibal turned his thoughts to Will and Morgan.

Hannibal had not failed to notice the month Morgan’s intended parents were supposed to claim him had come and gone. Will made no mention and acted as if the current state of affairs would continue.

If Morgan’s parents no longer wished to have Morgan, Hannibal was more than happy to claim him and his bearer for himself.

And if it turned out Morgan’s parents had reneged on their promise… well. That was quite rude of them.

Unforgivably rude.

* * *

Jack Crawford requested Hannibal’s presence in his office three days later. Thus Hannibal found himself in Quantico with Alana by his side.

“One of the inmates in Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane, Abel Gideon, wrote a signed confession he is the Chesapeake Ripper,” Jack announced.

Hannibal would have laughed if he could. Fate sometimes awarded those who practiced inertia.

“He murdered a nurse there,” Jack continued. “Blinded her first, then stabbed and impaled her with everything at hand. Just like Jeremy Olmstead.”

“Exactly like?” Hannibal asked.

“Too alike to be a coincidence,” said Jack.

“Abel Gideon was incarcerated two years ago,” said Alana. “It would fit the timeline.”

Jack nodded. “We would like to have him interviewed.”

“You don’t seem very excited, Jack,” Hannibal remarked.

Jack planted his forearms on his desk and leaned forward.

“Will submitted his profile on the Ripper. Gideon is a match on many points, but not all.”

“I’ve read it,” Alana chimed. “Gideon has never lived overseas, and, as far as we know, has little to no knowledge of Italy.”

“I asked Will what he thought of Gideon’s confession, before I asked for you two. He refused to discuss and told me to draw my own conclusions.” Jack nailed Hannibal with his eyes. “Something I should know about, Doctor Lecter?”

Hannibal hardened his own gaze, even as his chest felt like bursting. Oh, Will. His darling boy. He kept his promise.

“You are asking me to disclose what Will told me in confidence. But if you must know, I felt compelled to remind Will he must consider the consequences. That the last time someone tried to find more information on the Ripper, she never came back.”

Jack’s helpless rage and guilt was _delicious_.

* * *

“I’m burgeoning with vicarious professional pride, Hannibal. I think this is the first time Will said no on his own initiative,” Alana said after the meeting.

Hannibal bowed. “I can’t claim all credit. Will has taken most of the steps himself.”

“You mean Morgan.”

“Yes. I take it Jack is unaware.”

Alana shook her head. “He said he didn’t want people to know, since he’s going to give him away.”

“I can’t help but notice Morgan’s parents have yet to claim him.”

“I’ve wondered about that, too.” Alana let out a frustrated sigh. “They better not have changed their minds! Hannibal, do you think you could?”

“I’ll do my best.”

* * *

Hannibal thought there was no harm in asking baldly, so he did:

“What happened to Morgan’s parents, Will?”

Will looked more resigned than frustrated. “Morgan’s mom got into a car accident. She’s still recovering.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. What do you plan to do?”

“Take care of him until she gets better. Don’t worry, it’s fine.”

“That’s very kind of you,” Hannibal topped Will’s wine glass. “The musth season is coming, isn’t it.”

Will grimaced. “Yeah.”

“It will be difficult to weather with a child.”

“I usually hole up in the FBI dorms with a gun. It’s a very effective deterrent.”

Hannibal smiled at the mental images. “What about Morgan?”

“I’ll take him with me.”

“You don’t mind your colleagues knowing about him?”

“It’s not like they don’t know I haven’t had an estrus in almost a year.”

If there was one thing Hannibal appreciated about A/Os, it was their biological forthrightness. No messing around trying to figure out if one wants sex or not. If one was fertile or not. You _knew_ an Omega was ready when their temples oozed with secretions that looked like blood. You _knew_ at every musth an Alpha was ready to mate.

And yet.

“Alana hadn’t known you were with child for over four months. You must be discreet.”

“She thought it was the Plasmapheresis.” Will pulled a face. “Honestly, I’ve never been regular.”

“Have you seen a doctor about it?”

“WebMD said irregular is normal.”

“Do you know what they say about Internet diagnosis?”

Will grinned. “Take it with a grain of salt. Yes, I know.”

Later, Hannibal would wonder why it took him so long to make the connection. But it came to him between Will saying those words and him bringing his glass to his mouth:

The musth season happened every summer around July and winter around January.

Omega pregnancies lasted an average 37 weeks. Thus all normally conceived A/O children had a March or a September birthday.

Morgan was a little less than four months old. It was December now. Therefore, he was born in August. This couldn’t have happened if both of Morgan’s biological parents were A/O. Humans had not yet found a way to artificially induce a musth and collect viable Alpha sperm. In contrast, Beta men could provide sperm almost anytime.

Omegas had an estrus every two months on average. In short, there were more opportunities for Omegas to get pregnant than Alphas had chances to inseminate. Omegas could carry half-Beta children but not full Beta children. A strange quirk scientists have yet to understand.

Conclusion: Morgan was likely half-Beta.

Hannibal may also know his sire.

* * *

Margot Verger looked resplendent in her suffering when Hannibal paid her a visit. Pale but resolute. Broken but not destroyed.

“Hello, Margot.”

“Hello, Dr. Lecter.”

“How are you?”

“I’ll live,” said Margot grimly. “Minus a womb, but I’ll live.”

“How did it happen?”

“I was driving back home after spending a night with a man.”

And the thugs Mason ordered to tail Margot took the liberty of causing an accident, brought her to a doctor under Mason’s pay, who performed a hysterectomy while tending her wounds.

“Didn’t your expert warn you about this?”

Margot’s eyes flashed, but she didn’t ask Hannibal how he knew.

“It was the first thing he said,” she told him. “Mason would never let me have a child of my own. That if I tried to carry, he’d make sure to get rid of it. Plus any and all possibility of a second attempt.”

“He advised you to engage a substitute.”

“Someone Mason would never expect. Someone he doesn’t know. Someone who can hide where he can’t reach.”

“Somewhere like the FBI,” Hannibal concluded.

Margot made no reply, but her eyes said it all.

* * *

Hannibal treated Will to fine whiskey before he raised the question.

“Tell me, Will, why did you decide to help Margot Verger?”

Will froze for a second. Then he regarded Hannibal over his glass.

“How did you know?”

“I’m acquainted with the family and their situation. That’s all I can say.”

Will took a bracing drink and then exhaled slowly.

“She found me through _The Scent of Death_ , a book I published only because Rossi thought it was a good idea,” Will said. “I heard her story. Thought about it for a bit. Then I took a long night stroll around Muskrat Farm.”

Muskrat Farm. The Verger’s country estate. A place that still had a slaughterhouse. The place where Mason had operated his child camps.

“The blood I smelled there, weren’t shed from just pigs.” Will’s eyes brimmed over. “The screams I heard there, didn’t belong to just pigs.” A tear trickled down. “When I close my eyes, I can still hear them screaming.”

“And you thought if you destroyed Mason, you could make them stop, didn’t you? You thought if you got rid of Mason, you wouldn’t wake up alone stranded in the dark ever again to that awful screaming of children.”

Will face crumpled as the tears flowed freely.

Hannibal reached out, cradled Will’s face in both hands, and wiped the tears away.

He could see it now. Will burning hours and hours collecting evidence on what Mason was doing to the children he brought into his estate. Will working himself to the brink of insanity to bring reckoning. Then, after exhausting all legal venues and Mason only getting a slap on the wrist, Will hatched a plan: collect Mason’s sperm and impregnate himself with it.

“How selfless you are, taking Mason’s sperm and caring for his spawn,” Hannibal chided.

“It had to be me,” Will argued. “Mason doesn’t know me from Adam. I’m the last person who’d do it. I mean, why would the consultant go through the trouble?”

“If the consultant is Will Graham, then yes.” Hannibal paused. “Molson’s updated will state the Verger fortune goes to his oldest grandchild through Mason. It doesn’t exclude half-Betas.”

“I had Margot triple check, but yes.”

“How did you get the necessary materials?”

“Mason has a well-known drug habit. A bit of [ Tina](https://www.drugabuse.gov/publications/drugfacts/methamphetamine), and something to encourage ejaculation…” Will noticed Hannibal’s outrage. “He didn’t touch me. I collected with a hazmat suit on.”

Hannibal sighed. “That’s my boy.”

There was a moment of silence. Hannibal kept his hand on Will’s cheek and caressed it.

“Margot submitted Morgan’s DNA for testing. Mason’s firing all legal cylinders. The appeals and objections song and dance,” said Will.

“While seeking to remove him,” Hannibal added.

“Yeah, it’s all very Game of Thrones,” Will said dryly. “Mason is only as dangerous as his control over his body and estate. It would be a _great shame_ if something were to happen to either.”

Hannibal smiled. All this time, he thought Will was at the beginning of his journey to realize his dark potential. Now it turned out Will had started the journey on his own, and in fact was ready to emerge from his Chrysalis. So remarkable, his darling boy.

“You can have my help, Will. All you have to do is ask and say please.”

Will let out a breathy laugh.

“Please. I need you Doctor Lecter.”

* * *

Pilgrim  
  
Scott  
I can’t help but notice how well Hannibal fits your Ripper profile.  
  
So do 50+ others, according to the wizards at Data Analysis. Hannibal squeaked in at #48.  
  
Scott  
I’m guessing Jack is going down the list by rank  
  
Yeah, and he’s finding a depressingly high number of hitherto undetected murderers instead of the actual Ripper. #9 obliterated his victims using mushrooms, and #5 used an electric hot wire to decapitate his victims and then dumped the remains in his hospital’s cadaver storage unit.  
  
Scott  
*sigh*  
Bring him over to the Inner Harbor. I want to meet him.  
I promise not to shoot him on sight


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *sirens* REMINDER: Hannibal is a monster and this is not a major character death fic *sirens*

Hannibal got a phone call from Will the morning after the glorious evening full of promise.

“Hi. Would you like to meet Peter Campbell?” Will asked.

Hannibal blinked and blinked again. Drunk as he was with visions of him and Will killing Mason Verger together, Hannibal had trouble processing anything unrelated.

“He’s in the States?”

“He’s with me in Baltimore. Limited time offer. Get him before he vanishes again.”

“How could I say no?”

* * *

Peter Campbell neither impressed nor offended when Hannibal met him in a café at the Inner Harbor. Dressed like an investment banker and smelling faintly of the winter sea, Campbell was the blandest-looking man Hannibal had ever met.

Unnaturally so. Hannibal wondered what he was hiding.

“Hello, Mr. Campbell. It’s an honor to meet the man behind the book.”

“Likewise, though you give me too much credit. _Modern Investigation Techniques_ is Jude Garrett’s work. I’m just the guy who found his manuscript and edited it.”

“And kept it current ever since. You’re doing a great service, Mr. Campbell.”

“Oh, I don’t know. I’m not the one adding to its pages. It’s people like Will here.”

They both glanced at Will, who was bouncing a giggling Morgan. Hannibal noted the tenderness in Campbell’s gaze, even as his own breath caught at the sight of Will haloed in pale sunlight.

“I’m surprised you didn’t claim the book as yours. Jude Garrett was a recluse. No one would have known,” Hannibal said.

“Let’s just say truth has a way of coming out,” Campbell replied.

“Spoken like a true investigator.” Hannibal offered a smile. “You have been a mentor to Will since you’ve met him. I’m curious: what made you notice Will?”

Campbell’s blue eyes turned sharp while his posture remained at ease. This reminded Hannibal of something: An old, dusty memory sitting next to a bowl holding three milk teeth. It was unsettling as it was odd.

“Do you remember case study #176?”

“The murder at the East Side Inn,” said Hannibal promptly. “Someone committed a perfect murder using your book.”

“Jude Garrett’s book,” Campbell corrected. “I thought it would be a good showcase on the hazards of disseminating information.”

“There will always be those who abuse innovation.”

“True. Anyway, case study #176. Will made an excellent suggestion on how to catch a killer who left no trace and had the perfect alibi because she’s dead. Can you guess what it was?”

Hannibal thought for a second. “Even successful killers worry one day they may get caught. The paranoia of a tyrant. Yet at the same time, they have conceit: I’ve gotten away with murder before, and I will get away with it again _._ ”

“Very good. So you lure them. Make them want something even though they’re full. _Bait_.”

Hannibal felt the hook tickle his lips. “But bait do not survive, Mr. Campbell.”

“That’s the kicker.” Campbell smile was like a gust of arctic wind. “You let them kill you.”

* * *

Campbell’s words lingered in Hannibal’s mind until he opened TattleCrime.com and found the headlines proclaiming Abel Gideon was the Chesapeake Ripper.

Ms. Lounds began her feature article with an interview with Dr. Frederick Chilton, general administrator of Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane and Gideon’s current psychiatrist. Chilton claimed he suspected Gideon was the Ripper as soon as he received the updated version of the Ripper’s profile, and that he hadn’t had to probe very hard before Gideon confessed to all the murders. Lounds then posted an abbreviated version of the Ripper’s profile and made a lot of noise on how well Gideon fit Special Agent Graham’s picture of him and how Gideon’s two-year incarceration would explain the lack of recent Ripper kills. Having read Will’s full profile on the Ripper, Hannibal knew this was a ploy to get a rise out of the  _real_ Ripper.

Hannibal set aside the insult and his questions on when, exactly, Will gave Jack his Ripper profile for the moment. He’d learned his lesson where Ms. Lounds’s side commentary on Will Graham was concerned. So he went looking.

And there it was. In the middle of the page, he found a small photo of Will, smiling and tickling Morgan behind a glass wall. Hannibal recognized the Inner Harbor café where Will introduced him to Peter Campbell. He could see his own self in the photo, blurry but unmistakable.

> Who is this baby? Could it be Graham’s? Could this be the reason why Agent Graham refused further involvement with the Chesapeake Ripper? The Ripper is not known to kill babies, but he could make an exception…

Oh dear. Ms. Lounds had really outdone herself in squeezing every bit of sensationalism she could get her grubby hands on.

Will certainly noticed. He ranted about it to Hannibal the next time they met.

“‘I said you’re not involved!’” said Will in a high-pitched voice. “‘The Ripper has no good reason to harm you if you’re uninvolved!’” Will rolled his eyes. “Like the Ripper needs a reason.”

“Just doing it for the laughs,” Hannibal paraphrased.

Will snapped his teeth. “This is a disaster and everything will end in tears.”

“Jack should have realized Ms. Lounds would do something like this, I agree.”

“Wait, you know Freddie Lounds?” Will blurted.

“I read TattleCrime,” Hannibal confessed.

Will’s reaction was to look triumphant. “ _Finally_.”

Hannibal blinked. “Will?”

“I found it. Your flaw. I knew you had to have one.”

Hannibal gave him a wounded look. “Will.”

“I knew you were into true crime or something like. No one reads _Modern Investigation Techniques_ unless they’re in the field, an enthusiast, a writer, or a budding killer.” Will grinned wickedly. “Even so, TattleCrime? For shame, Hannibal, for shame.”

Hannibal perked up. “Finally.”

“Huh?”

“You said my name.”

Will turned a lovely shade of pink. “Mm, yeah. So I did. A bit forward of me, sorry. Um, you don’t mind?”

“Mind?” Hannibal beamed as he shook his head. “ _Never_.”

* * *

Will got questioned about the mystery baby at work. His response was to bring Morgan to Quantico with an enormous diaper bag and invite Hannibal to the show.

“Why,” Beverly Katz demanded.

“Maybe, for once, I wanted to be an instrument that brings new life, not just someone who saves existing ones,” Will retorted.

That made Ms. Katz thoughtful, whereas taking Brian Zeller aback. “Well.”

“So cute!” Price exclaimed. “How old?”

“Four months.”

Price appeared to do the calculations in his head. “Pre-me?”

“I am a bit on the older side,” Will said with a flat smile.

Hannibal would rather die choking on a McDonalds than admit he hadn’t considered premature birth. At least his hunch hadn’t been wrong.

Morgan made his rounds through the crime lab as Will’s coworkers passed him for another person to cuddle.

“So how are you doing?” Ms. Katz asked Will. Then she laughed at the look on his face. “Right, stupid question. You’re great and awesome when you’re not an exhausted nervous wreck, which is always. I should know, I have a boatload of nieces and nephews.”

“Sounds about right,” Will muttered.

Jack Crawford prowled into the lab at some point and got hold of Morgan.

“Oh, look at you,” Jack cooed. “Did Daddy dress you as a puppy? Did he? Did he dress you up as a cute little puppy?”

Everyone stared as they tried to square the puddle of sap with the head of the BAU, a man who struck fear in the hearts of killers with his insights and yelling.

Jack looked delighted when Morgan let out a happy gurgle, took hold of his tie and put it in his mouth for an exploratory chew. “He’s adorable.”

“Erm, thanks,” said Will, wide-eyed.

“You two planning to stay here for a while?” Jack asked, the canny agent once more.

“Until things calm down on the Gideon front,” Will replied. “I don’t want to ask for protection detail, but I don’t want to take chances, either.”

Jack nodded. “I’ll get some trainees on a babysitting rotation.”

Will sagged with relief. “Thanks, Jack. I appreciate it.”

* * *

Perhaps it was the care Jack Crawford showed Will in his time of need, but Hannibal forewent his initial plan to invade Jack’s house and leave prints of Miriam Lass all over the place.

Instead, he left messages on Jack’s voicemail that told him where he could find Lass.

One piece at a time.

* * *

“I _told them_ ,” Will said between gritted teeth. “I _told them_ this will end in tears.”

They were in Hannibal’s office that Friday. Will’s primary care physician had signed him off as seizure-free, so to celebrate, Will drove himself up to Hannibal’s office with Morgan. At the moment, Will was pacing and Morgan was inside a travel crib, gumming a plush toy dog.

“Have they found the rest of Lass?” Hannibal asked.

“All limbs accounted for. We found her left arm in the Observatory.” Will ran his palms down his face. “Two killers on the loose, I haven’t left Quantico in two weeks, and I’m almost out of diapers. It’s a nightmare.”

“Focus on Mason. At least you know where to find him.”

“Point.” Will wrinkled his nose. “Morgan needs a diaper change.”

“You may use the chaise.”

“The Freudian couch is actually a diaper changing station. Who knew?”

Hannibal set the changing mat, wipes, and a fresh diaper on the chaise while Will brought Morgan over. Will looked amused when Hannibal donned a pair of gloves and held out his hands.

“What kind of evidence are you looking for?” Hannibal asked while he changed Morgan.

“There’s a gap between the number of kids who entered Mason’s camp and those who left,” Will said, taking a photo of Hannibal for some unfathomable reason. “This even accounting those who don’t want to talk. The smell of human blood is concentrated in the hog pen where Mason keeps his most violent pigs.”

“Do you mean…?”

Will was ghostly in his pallor.

“He could be feeding them to his pigs.”

Snow started falling outside when they returned Morgan to his crib. In the silence, Hannibal tried to imagine an infiltration into Muskrat Farm, but all he could picture was Will, blood splattered and hands red, cutting down every human pig that dared to cross his path.

It was a glorious image. Soon to become a reality. _Soon_.

“Stay at my place tonight. The roads aren’t fit for driving.”

His house was ready. Will’s remarkable nose would not be able to scent what had happened within its walls. Not unless Hannibal let him.

“Scandalous,” Will murmured, looking through his long lashes.

“Nothing of the sort will happen,” Hannibal tapped Will’s temple, which was clear of fluids. “Not tonight.”

Will followed Hannibal’s hand when he withdrew it. So starved for affection, his Will. So ravenous for touch. Hannibal yearned to feed him.

Which was why he wrapped a hand around the back of Will’s neck, slid an arm around his waist, and held him tight. Will whole body trembled as he melted into the embrace.

They stood there for a while, hugging and breathing in each other.

“You’re shaking,” said Hannibal quietly.

“I’m afraid,” Will mumbled.

“What are you afraid of?”

“Of what will happen. Of what will become of me, after.”

Hannibal ran his thumb in soothing circles on Will’s neck.

“Don’t be afraid, Will,” he whispered. “You won’t be alone. I’ll be right there beside you.”

* * *

Will stayed for the night.

He stayed for the entire weekend.

It was remarkable how easily Will fit into Hannibal’s domain. Like two streams of water converging together, the lines between them simply blurred. They woke up next to each other in a snow-blanketed morning; had breakfast with Bach’s Goldberg Variations playing in the background; never strayed out of each other’s sight or reach thereafter. Of course, there was no explosive confrontation over the scent of death.

Will kept resting his face on Hannibal’s chest, shy hands clutching Hannibal’s sides, minute tremors wracking his slim frame. Like he would never get another chance. Like he believed Hannibal would vanish at the stroke of midnight and then he would be alone again, abandoned and hungry. Whenever he did, Hannibal wrapped his arms around him and nuzzle his curls.

Hannibal imagined a life just like that perfect weekend stretched out to infinity. It lit him on fire.

Maybe, after Morgan claimed his birthright, he and Will could…

They could…

* * *

Around the time Abel Gideon began to doubt he was the Ripper, developed an identity crisis, and escaped prison to hunt down the psychiatrists who’d studied him—Dr. Frederick Chilton for instance—Mason Verger showed up to his therapy session armed with his father’s old jackknife.

“You know, doc, I think you like Margot more than me,” Mason pouted as he repeatedly stabbed the armrest of the chair he was sitting on. “I mean, you visited her at the hospital. You never paid _me_ a visit!”

The prospect of murdering this vermin with Will was about the only reason why Hannibal hadn’t killed him yet. “I visit those who cannot make it to my office, Mason.”

“What if I want to do therapy at home?”

“I can make a home visit if that is what you prefer.”

Mason giggled loudly. “We should make a day out of it! Dinner and therapy!”

Hannibal raised his eyebrows.

“I heard you’re a gourmand,” said Mason. “And an excellent chef. So I thought, hey! I can get the freshest meat out there. I’m the one who produces America’s fresh meat! I wonder what Dr. Lecter can do with the bestest most premium pork.”

“That would be generous of you,” said Hannibal.

Mason grinned, planted his knife deep into the armrest, and then pulled out his phone. Not a moment later, a uniformed and capped driver entered Hannibal’s office without knocking. The driver placed an icebox bearing the Verger company logo on Hannibal’s desk.

“Black Iberian pig. Straight from our farms in Sicily,” said Mason.

Hannibal opened the icebox. There was a brick-sized package sitting on a bed of cooling packs. Hannibal pressed his fingers into the butcher-paper wrapping. “A fine cut.”

“Make something good when you come to visit me. You will, won’t you, doctor? I’m looking forward to eating what you come up with.”

“It would have to be Sunday,” Hannibal said. “Any longer and the meat will spoil.”

“Sounds good!” Mason’s smile showed too many teeth. “It’s a date! Oh, and don’t worry about the chair, just send me the bill!”

Mason’s session ended twenty excruciating minutes later. Hannibal escorted Mason to the patient’s exit and brightened when he found Will at the waiting area. Mason appraised Will with obvious disdain for a second, sniffed, and went away.

“I have a way to Mason,” Hannibal said, as soon as he shut the door.

Will’s eyes burned.

“Sunday,” Hannibal promised.

“Merry Christmas,” Will whispered.

* * *

 Will took one sniff at Mason’s package and turned white.

“That’s not pork.”

* * *

Hannibal was fully cognizant of the irony of him sending off suspected human flesh to the FBI for analysis and substituting it with real pork for Mason’s consumption.

Hannibal acknowledged it was to his benefit he helped the FBI collect evidence against Mason Verger. Who, with this one act of stupidity, pushed himself to the top of the list of people who could be the _Chesapeake Ripper._

It was strange how well Mason fit the profile. Known Sadist. From a family of vast means if not culture. Lived overseas as a child. Private school education that included the study of Classics. Frequent trips to Italy because of the Sicilian farm the Vergers owned. A background in butchery, albeit on the factory scale. A cadre of sycophantic physicians under his control, one of them a surgeon and a registered pedophile. Most importantly: suspected by Will Graham of murdering the children he was molesting by feeding them to his pigs.

Under different circumstances, Hannibal might have found this hilarious. But being deprived of the chance to see Will kill made him _incandescent with rage_.

Hannibal refused to be thwarted. He will ensure Will had his chance to kill even if Hannibal would not be there to witness it.

That night, Mason received an untraceable call:

“Special Agent Will Graham is helping Margot.”

* * *

“I wish I could go with you.”

“I’ll be fine, Will.” Hannibal took Will’s hand and laced their fingers. “A SWAT team will be on the ready. I will have a recording device, and a panic button for if things go awry.” He will not be using either device at the critical moment, lest the FBI hear him murder Mason. “I’m more worried about you. I don’t think it’s a coincidence Mason gave me the gift after the Ripper resurfaced—when you came into the limelight.”

Will gazed at their linked hands and nodded.

“Do whatever you need to do to stay safe. Even if it means you must take a life.” Hannibal brought Will’s hand to his lips and kissed his knuckles. “Promise me, Will.”

Will clutched his hand.

“I promise.”

* * *

Mason was cuddling a live piglet in his arms when he came to greet Hannibal at the driveway.

“Oh, that smells _good_ ,” Mason drawled, making exaggerated sniffing noises. “That smells _real_ good.”

A portly man, greasy and smelling of cheap booze, took Hannibal’s dish. A marginally better-groomed valet took Hannibal’s car keys.

Mason took Hannibal to a long, winding tour through Muskrat Farm. After the mansion and the gardens and the stables and etcetera and so forth, Mason insisted Hannibal simply _had_ to see his latest batch of pigs: four-legged mountains of flesh that lived on a diet of meat and hate.

“Our stench makes ‘em angry, see!” Mason yelled over the cacophony of squeals and screams. “Rage gives the meat an interesting flavor! Notes of citrus and cherry!”

Hannibal watched the pigs tear the sacrificial lamb apart, his expression and pulse unchanging. Mason noticed and stepped away from him.

At last, Mason led Hannibal to the dining hall. There was a long table there, and it was set for two. Hannibal and Mason sat on the chairs on either side of the head, facing each other. Mason was still clutching his piglet.

“You know, doctor, I’ve been thinking about you a lot,” said Mason. “Ever since Margot started seeing you, she’s been getting smart. Like, real smart. I mean, Margot’s always been, what’s the word, oh yes, _tenacious_ , but not much for brains. You have _no idea_ how much fun I had leading her on since she got disowned.”

Hannibal said nothing.

“Then you came along, and she changed. None of my detectives and none of my men could figure out what she’s up to! Just once, they got a hint she might be trying to have a Verger baby by herself. Turns out no.

“Then I got a lucky break. Will Graham! Have you heard of him? They say he’s the best agent in the FBI. I read it on the Internet so it must be true.” Mason smirked. “Best person to help Margot, don’t you think? Maybe even give her a Verger baby since she can’t have one.”

“I don’t know why you’re telling me this, Mason,” Hannibal said.

That moment, the smell of braised meat wafted into the dining room. A waiter entered the room pushing a wheeled cart. It carried two covered trays and a bottle of Chianti. Hannibal stifled a sigh. _Rube._

The waiter placed a tray before Hannibal and removed the lid. Soup, with a side of Caprese salad. Decent enough presentation. Aroma, not so much.

“Since you provided the main dish, it’s only fair I provided the others,” Mason said brightly. “Eat, eat!”

“And our conversation?”

“We can continue after the first course! Dig in!”

Hannibal picked up his fork and took a bite of the Caprese. Passable. He eyed Mason, who was partaking the soup with relish.

Hannibal set down his fork, picked up his spoon and sampled the soup.

He knew immediately it had been doctored.

“Mason,” Hannibal said flatly.

“Why, you don’t like it?” Mason made an exaggerated sad face. “I made it special for you. Slaughtered the meat _hours_ before our meal to make sure you got the freshest.”

“What else have you put in it?”

“Fun stuff. But that’s not the point. Did you like the meat? It’s long pig. A very clever one.”

Hannibal felt his face fossilize. “Mason.”

“I saw you at the Inner Harbor,” said Mason, his eyes glittering with malice. “You and Will Graham and the little baby. I had you followed since I noticed Margot was getting too smart for her own good, did you know? I saw the way you look at him. The way you touch him.”

Hannibal had a vague awareness of the hands pinning him to his chair. And the jab to his shoulder.

“Do you love him? Do you ache for him? _Do you know how he tastes_?” Mason laughed maniacally. “Well, now you do!”

Hannibal shed his person suit before his anguish rendered him useless.

He had five minutes.

He will make them count.

* * *

The FBI heard the recordings later with appalled horror:

“When did you get a taste for human flesh, Mason?”

“A while back!” A cackle. “People taste like pork, did you know? Like sweet loin! All those kids I’ve been throwing away to the pigs, wasted! _Wasted!_  I could have collected more than just tears…”

* * *

Hannibal drank down the soup while Mason tore off his own face in a PCP fueled euphoria.

If what Mason said was true, if he would never see Will again, he wanted to consume his flesh so they may never part. Will would join his dear sister Mischa, who he ate one long and lean winter when the brute who murdered his parents killed her to eat.

Hannibal fell to the floor after his last swallow. Paralysis spread through his limbs. Hannibal had just enough mobility to hit the panic button.

As he lay there face-down, Hannibal vomited.

 _No._  Why was his body failing him like this? He must keep Will. _He must keep Will._

He must—

* * *

Pilgrim  
  
Scott  
NO  
  
?  
  
Scott  
I don’t care how highly everyone thinks of him, the light of humanity hasn’t touched Hannibal Lecter in a million years. He’s a goddamn funnel-web spider! NO!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *sirens*sirens* still not a major character death fic, though Hannibal 100% deserves it! *sirens*sirens*


	7. Chapter 7

Hannibal woke up to the scent of antiseptic and _L’Air Du Temps._

“Alana?” He croaked.

Then he coughed. More than twenty-four hours unconscious, judging from the roughness of his vocal cords. Twenty-four hours he was not aware. Twenty-four hours the hospital had the liberty to pump his stomach and purge what little he had left of Will.

“She just left.”

Hannibal opened his eyes. Jack Crawford was sitting by his bedside, looking bone-weary and defeated.

“Agent Crawford.”

“Doctor.”

“How long?”

“A day and a half.”

Off by twelve hours. He was more disoriented than he thought.

Hannibal coughed again. Jack offered him a cup of water with a straw. Hannibal took a sip, exhaled, and murmured his thanks.

They stewed in silence for a beat. Hannibal broke the pause before it could fester.

“What happened?”

“We arrested Mason,” Jack answered. “Every agent we can spare, every volunteer we can get, is combing through Muskrat Farm. It’s not a pretty picture.”

Hannibal cared not one whit, except: “I seem to recall him taking a knife.”

“To _himself_. Mason cut up his own face and genitals. Tox screen says Phencyclidine.”

Hannibal closed his eyes and sighed. He didn’t see the castration. Pity. He would have cherished the memory.

“Mason intended to frame you,” Jack said after a long beat.

Hannibal opened his eyes again.

“Mason claims _you_ are the Chesapeake Ripper,” Jack explained. “He gave you that packet to accuse you of feeding him human flesh.” A pause. “You have a sealed off section in your basement.”

Ah, so Jack and his merry team of forensic specialists discovered his special pantry. Yet he wasn’t under arrest. “What happened to it?”

“Mason’s men tore it open and turned it into a murder basement. Something straight out of a horror movie. They even left a plastic murder onesie about your size.” Jack shook his head. “The prints we lifted from the set all belonged to Mason’s men.”

Hysterical. “Should I call my lawyer?”

“Maybe. How Mason’s going to make his claim stick when we found his pig farm literally swimming with human blood, I don’t know. But considering how he wormed his way out of jail the last time, you should consider.”

Another long legal battle. How tedious. “I will.”

Jack stared at a point just beyond Hannibal. Hannibal asked the question both were loathed to address.

“Will,” then, as an afterthought, “Morgan.”

Jack looked torn between pain and compassion.

“I’d rather know, Jack.”

Jack rubbed a hand over his face as he tipped closer towards agony.

“They took him from your house.”

Hannibal’s eyes burned.

“There was a fight.”

The burning sensation got stronger. His throat was tight.

“He took down at least three. It was a team of six. Morgan’s safe with his mom.”

The last bit of irrelevance made Hannibal lose his composure.

“ _Did I really eat him?!_ ”

Jack shook his head frantically.

“ _No._ God, no. Mason hadn’t the time. But. I think he planned to. We… we recovered bits of Will’s liver in the kitchen.”

Hannibal wept.

* * *

Alana returned with tear tracks and scream-lines creasing the foundation around her mouth. She also brought Hannibal a change of clothes: casual slacks, a shirt, and the sweater he’d worn that perfect Saturday morning.

Hannibal stared at the sweater for too long before he brought it to his nose, hoping to catch any lingering scent of Will.

He didn’t.

Hannibal checked himself out of the hospital not long after. A determined Alana accompanied him to his townhouse.

“It’s still a crime scene,” Alana warned.

“Nevertheless,” Hannibal said, “I want to go home.”

There was still crime scene tape all around the perimeter. Two police guards stood before the gate. They let him and Alana walk through the doors when Hannibal showed them his I.D..

Hannibal walked in slowly. His kitchen was ground zero. Blood was on the kitchen counter, walls and floor. His chef’s knife was missing. He could see bullet holes. The floor had tape shaped like prone bodies around dark brown stains. Three.

Will once told Hannibal how he reconstructed crime scenes in his head. _I take everything in—every fiber, every scent, every sound, every detail—and let the pendulum of my imagination swing._

Hannibal closed his eyes and let himself picture the battle…

_…Three men came through the side kitchen door. He heard them and the other three men long before they set a foot inside. Heard their beating hearts. Smelt their blood lust._

_He fired his Barretta as soon as they came to view. He caught the leader in the stomach. Glazed the second one’s shoulder. Smoke and screams filled the air. Blood pooled on the tile. He kept shooting until he heard the second group approach._

_He pulled out a knife and slashed. Missed. Someone grabbed him from behind. Snarling, he smashed the back of his head into his assailant’s face._

_The man let go howling. He was free. He stabbed a man’s throat. Blood sprayed into the air and all over his face when he pulled out. He turned and sliced into another man’s stomach, disemboweling him._

_He was still holding his knife, slippery with blood, when someone hit the back of his skull and…_

“Hannibal?”

Hannibal jerked back to reality. He was crouching low on the floor where there were droplets of dried blood.

Will’s blood. A tear trickled down Hannibal’s nose and joined it.

_You were magnificent. You did all that I wished for you. My greatest and only regret is that it ended so soon. The world already feels maddeningly dull without you. I wish I can have you back._

Alana knelt beside him, her eyes warm and compassionate and so full of sympathy he wished to gouge them out so he won’t have to see. She did not understand. Never will.

“You can stay at my place.”

“I appreciate the offer, Alana. But I would like to spend some time alone.”

Hannibal ushered Alana to the door. When she left, Hannibal returned to the kitchen in solitude. He took out all of his teacups and dropped them one by one. He felt despondent when they did not gather themselves back up.

When all the teacups lay shattered on the floor, Hannibal closed his eyes and entered his mind palace.

He strode through the gilded halls, out to the courtyard, into the woods, and…

… _There_ , he was sitting before a lit fireplace. Inside a little house in Wolf Trap. Will was by his side, his beautiful face radiant.

“Would you have fed me people?” asked Will, as if picking up an old conversation.

“I wanted to give you every good and beautiful thing,” Hannibal said earnestly. “I wanted to give you the world.”

Will smiled. “Taste and see what is good.”

“For all of our days.” Hannibal smiled back sadly. “But Will, you’re dead.”

“Am I?”

A curious question. Hannibal supposed Will would live on in his memory.

_However…_

Hannibal opened his eyes. A gun’s muzzle was pressing against the side of his head. The scent of the winter sea filled his nostrils.

“Mr. Campbell.”

* * *

Peter Campbell stared back at him. His eyes were dead—as dead as an assassin’s. His hands were rock-steady.

The mystery of Campbell and his association with three milk teeth in a bowl revealed itself.

“How long have you been an Intelligence Operative, Mr. Campbell?” _How long have you been a state-sanctioned killer?_

“Why did you tell Mason Will is helping Margot, Dr. Lecter?” Campbell rejoined.

Hannibal said nothing but he felt a powerful regret.

“I don’t know why he didn’t see it,” Campbell said softly. “The FBI I can understand. It’s very hard to equate the nice man who drove seventy freakin’ miles and fed them good homemade food when they were stuck with a god-awful case over Thanksgiving with a sadistic serial killer. Add a dozen or so photos of you doting over Will and Morgan, it doesn’t compute. I _know_ Jack Crawford was thinking about you and Will’s might-have-beens when he composed his resignation letter.

“But I know Will. He doesn’t do self-delusion, even if the truth will kill him. The Ripper’s profile is basically your life story. I look at you and I know you haven’t got a soul. It’s like he stopped looking.”

The memory of Will keeping his promise sank its fangs. “I wish things were different.”

“Do you?” Campbell asked. “Do you feel regret, Dr. Lecter? Do you wish yourself in a different world, where you didn’t make the damn call? Where you get to wake up in the hospital with Will by your side, not Jack Crawford delivering you the worst of news? A world where you are here and he is here and you get to share all the hopes and dreams you had? The places you’d take him, the things you’d show him, the sweet rosé wine you’d let him taste? The two of you so conjoined, neither of you surviving separation—”

“ _Enough_!” Hannibal snarled, but the damage was done. The idea planted itself in his mind and infected every thought, every memory. In his mind, Will had been with him in Paris. In Florence. At the Norman Chapel. The Uffizi Gallery. There had always been two armchairs before a fire, two glasses of rosé wine. From this moment on, he would not be alone when he roamed the vast halls of his mind palace, and that reality would always leave him cold.

“What do you mean to accomplish, Mr. Campbell?” Hannibal demanded. “All you have is words.”

“I don’t take half measures,” said Campbell flatly. “Prove yourself useful or die.”

Hannibal raised his eyebrows. “Is that a threat, Mr. Campbell?”

“A very good one. Both of us regret his death. You wanted Will with you in the dark. I wanted Will in the light. I knew the Dark World would one day claim him, but I would have done anything to give him just one more day of sunshine.”

“Too late now,” Hannibal noted.

Campbell didn’t flinch or bat an eye. “I can give him the next best thing. I believe we’ve learned our lesson where Mason and the legal system are concerned.”

“I did not picture you as someone so sentimental as to fulfill a dead man’s wish.”

Campbell remained unmoved. Professional. “Yet here I am, demanding that you prove yourself useful. For you to do what you do best.”

Hannibal narrowed his eyes at Campbell, trying to divine what the man was refusing to say.

When it came to him, it felt as though he’d swallowed the sun.

“Being dead is the best alibi.” _And one can live with a partial liver; it will regenerate from the remaining tissue._

“One of the best.” Campbell pulled his gun away. “You have three days. That should be more than enough.”

* * *

Hannibal checked himself back into Johns Hopkins, claiming severe abdominal pains and vomiting. His old colleagues at the hospital fussed over him, gave him anti-nausea medication and a private room for him to convalesce. He declined a security detail, but informed his useful friends at the FBI where he was.

Hannibal seized an arm in the middle of the night before he was conscious of the action.

“You are being very rude, Ms. Lounds. You are being very rude indeed.”

Freddie Lounds dropped her camera when Hannibal crushed her arm. He heard it break with satisfaction.

“You’re hurting me,” Ms. Lounds hissed.

“And you’re not supposed to be here. I’m under guard because the FBI fears Mason may do away with me before I can testify against him in court. Your trespass is a serious offense, and the FBI would _love_ an excuse to confiscate all your digital possessions. But by all means, make a noise if you like.”

Ms. Lounds bit her lip. Good.

“Playing catch up?” Hannibal asked softly. “Are you trying to make up for the fact you missed the scoop of the year because you were too busy keeping Dr. Chilton alive? What was it like to watch Abel Gideon remove all of Chilton’s non-essential organs? How long did it take you to be too weary to push the respirator? How long did it take for Chilton to die? How long did you wait before you realized no one gave a damn?”

Hannibal watched Freddie’s mounting horror and drank deeply from that well.

“Learn from Chilton’s example, dear Freddie: be greedy, but not too much.” Hannibal pulled her closer. “Now, do you know where they’re keeping Mason?”

“I’ll tell you if you tell me what you’re going to do about it,” Freddie whispered.

“Do?” Hannibal smiled. “Nothing. I just wanted to make sure you posted the information on your lovely website.”

Ms. Lounds was a clever girl. She knew what might happen if that information went public. If a certain Abel Gideon heard about it.

“ _Now_ , Ms. Lounds. We don’t have all day.”

* * *

Hannibal took dark satisfaction in meeting Abel Gideon in the private hospital that held Mason Verger.

“This way, Abel,” Hannibal waved at the correct room. “You have fifteen minutes before hospital security notices all the guards you’ve killed. Make them count.”

Abel smirked. “Hannibal Lecter. I recognize you. They say Mason made you eat the love of your life. I suppose you’d want revenge. Not worried I’d kill you, too?”

“I honestly don’t care. Be warned that you might find him disappointing.”

Gideon _did_ find Mason disappointing. So much, he tore out all of Mason’s major blood vessels and tied them to his hands and feet with little bows. The latter was quite a remarkable feat, considering veins had the consistency of cooked pasta, Hannibal should know.

“It’s like that time I killed my wife,” Gideon complained. “I thought I’d feel better once she was gone. Instead…”

“You have a gaping hole where the promised satisfaction was supposed to be,” Hannibal sighed. “I feel quite let down myself. But I suppose even turning Mason into soup wouldn’t have been enough.” He extended a hand to Gideon. “Thank you, Abel. I’ll make sure to return the favor.”

Gideon shook his hand, looking amused. “You’ll let me walk?”

“In a manner of speaking. You wanted to meet the Chesapeake Ripper.” Hannibal palmed the ice pick he’d kept in his sleeve. “I who speak to you am he.”

Then he plunged the ice pick into Gideon’s temple.

Hannibal left before the sirens, but not before covering the ice pick with Gideon’s prints and leaving the corpse of Freddie Lounds in Mason’s room.

* * *

“Should’ve known you’re an overachiever.”

“If collateral damage troubles you so much, you’re in the wrong business, Mr. Campbell. Or did you think you could change me?”

“You already did. When was the last time you ate someone?”

* * *

Hannibal supposed Peter Campbell had a point.

Before, he did whatever curiosity and amusement moved him to do. And took great pleasure in eating the rude.

Now, he did whatever it took to fill the empty seat next to him, to touch the body his skin still craved, to hear the voice he longed to hear. And since that day at Muskrat Farm, his body refused to stomach human flesh. Though Hannibal was familiar with the gut-brain connection behind his new trauma, the indignity of it made him fume; betrayed by his own body!

If Campbell’s price was his usefulness, then he will be. Hannibal had many talents, cleaning up and starting new being one of them.

He sold his house. (“I don’t think I can ever return here.”)

He closed his practice. (“My therapy wasn’t supposed to kill.”)

He left America. (“I need to regain my appetite.”)

Then he headed to Europe for a deep clean.

* * *

Campbell kept finding him and surviving those meetings, despite Hannibal doing his best to kill him for withholding Will.

“Do you see him?”

“I can see him now, from the corner of my eye. But when I turn to face him, he’s not there.”

“Feel like you’re losing your mind?”

“You think this is justice.”

“The most poetic kind, yes.”

“You live on borrowed time, Peter. One day I will kill you.”

“No doubt. And you will never see Will again after that. So think it through.”

* * *

Hannibal was sketching inside the Uffizi Gallery when someone bearing an achingly familiar scent sat next to him.

“I dragged you into my world.”

Hannibal felt himself tremble. He did not look up lest it turned out his mind was playing tricks with him again. How many times did he believe he got Will back, only to blink and see him no more?

“I got there on my own, but I appreciate the company.”

The laughter felt real.

So did the hand over his.

* * *

 

[ Billy Joel: for the longest time ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_izt7vlJKM0)

 

* * *

The END.

So what really happened?

Maybe Will is dead.

Jack leaves the FBI after seeing the carnage in Mason’s hospital room. He spends the last of Bella’s days caring for her. When he has a heart attack during her funeral, he quietly locks himself in a bathroom stall and waits.

The FBI has the smallest graduating class the year after Will’s death, for many of the trainees who babysat Morgan dropped out. Those who stay form a daycare group. Will’s old coworkers at the Crime Lab volunteer there often.

Alana adopts Will’s dogs. She eventually meets Morgan and his mom. The three become close—very close. Morgan grows up hearing the tragic tale of his heroic bearer, Will Graham. He is also warned to never, ever join the FBI.

Hannibal has been hallucinating ever since he left the hospital. He’s wandering alone in Europe, a broken man chasing after a mirage.

OR

Maybe Will staged his death to:

  1. Nail Mason once and for all
  2. Make a complete break from the FBI and join Scott full time.
  3. Give Hannibal a new fantasy to live out. Namely, that of recovering Will and replaying the Perfect Weekend. Will knew any attempt to change Hannibal’s nature was doomed to failure, but the way Hannibal _manifested_ his nature could change.



Will now lives under a new identity with Hannibal. Will still does forensics, but in the context of espionage and only for Scott. Hannibal goes back to being a surgeon. Most of his patients are spies or covert operatives. Occasionally, Hannibal meets someone who recognizes him on the street. He plays the role of broken man really well (the hobo man-bun and beard he cultivates does the heavy lifting).

They have dogs. Lots of them. Their mornings are a variation of the Perfect Weekend. Hannibal waits for the day he can kill Scott/Peter. Scott never stops wondering if he could’ve prevented Hannibal from happening to Will— _his baby brother_ —if he hugged Will more.

This may happen in the future:

* * *

Pilgrim  
  
You’re an unmitigated asshole.  
  
Scott  
I said you can have him, but the murder and cannibalism had to go. You agreed.  
Your plan worked beautifully, btw. Didn’t think the new fantasy would take, but he fell hook, line, and sinker. I guess he really loves you back.  
He’s a great asset, too.  
  
And you’re still an asshole.  
  
Scott  
:-)  
So how are the dogs? How is your Beloved? Has he killed anyone lately?  
Dogs are fine, Hannibal is fine, he only wants to kill one person and it’s you.  
  
Scott  
You’re very welcome

**Author's Note:**

> THE END (really). Thank you for reading! You can find more of my stuff at: [booksofchange.com](https://www.booksofchange.com)


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